Perfect After All: Odds Without Ends
by Jaya Mitai
Summary: Anime-verse. An addendum to the Perfect After All universe, a collection of drabbles related to PAA canon. The first is Sand and Shade: Havoc meets Roy. The second is Special Ops: Ed and Al get a taste of Havoc's op gone bad. The third is a discarded possible sequel to the PAA trilogy.
1. Sand and Shade part 1

**Perfect After All: Odds Without Ends**

**Sand And Shade**

Jaya Mitai

**Disclaimer** - Don't own FMA. Making no money. Don't sue.

Anime-verse. The first in the Perfect After All: Odds Without Ends series is this little drabble, that I can safely guarantee will be in only three parts because it was written back in January. I was discussing PAA Havoc with Liffey and made reference to it without thinking, and of course he had no idea what I was talking about because it was written in email and traded to Silverfox for fic. So technically this is in past PAA canon, which is FMA canon because PAA has always and remains within the rules of the anime canon (excluding the kidnapping of Olivier from the manga).

So consider this a PAA prequel, if you will. This particular drabble lays out the first meeting of one Major Roy Mustang and one Sergeant Jean Havoc.

- x -

Burn burn burn.

It hurt more in the end, but less in the beginning, and it was faster. He didn't even look anymore, just kept right on attacking, trusting it to tell him where his men were, and where their men were.

Burn burn burn.

The long-term pain was getting quicker to set in, and there was a worrying slickness to it that jarred him more fully awake. It was bone-deep, so he knew it was bleeding again, and blood was water, and water was necessary for fire but not to this extreme-

It was soaking through the glove.

Mustang raised his left hand, leaving what fire was burning where it was and taking on the flank. There were two of them, fast, and he could feel projectiles cutting through his air currents, not swiftly enough to be bullets. Arrows.

He could burn arrows.

Three more snaps, all quick, and he found he had the same problem. He'd been trying to favor his left hand, had been the entire time, and so when he had to rely on it to this extreme, the calluses weren't as well-formed. A mistake that had never occurred to him, and of course always too late. Still two of them, he hadn't hit them yet, and he used the fire in the air to ignite the gas he'd gathered above them, knowing it wouldn't get there fast enough, wouldn't burn hot enough.

He did manage to sear several of them, but of course the _piros_ were desert-born to begin with, then boiled down. Searing wouldn't take care of the problem. They needed to be incinerated, and even then the ash could sicken.

And, of course, there was the immediate problem, which was that they were arrows, and even by themselves could be fatal. He could only hope their aim was as bad as his.

Some of the men had regrouped; he could hear both rifle and pistol shots, but he didn't listen too terribly closely. He was bleeding into both gloves. He needed another source of fire, or he was going to be worthless. Twelve miles from base camp, having hit two pair of warrior priests already, it was just not the time. He was torn between taking the gloves off to let his fingers scab over again, or leaving them on and trying to keep the fire burning indefinitely. He had little concentration to spend and less to spare, and when he found himself hurtling toward the sand and rocks and knowing that he hadn't moved himself and no arrow that big could have reached him undetected he knew he was in trouble.

Roy Mustang struck out just before he hit the ground, delayed reflexes working in his favor as the rock beneath his elbow made his strike stronger. It was a knife that slipped from his attacker's hand, and Mustang identified the weapon and its position without any emotional reaction whatsoever. A second later a third figure pounced the second, and the three of them went rolling before something he decided was a fist glanced his right cheekbone, and both of the figures rolled off to grapple with each other.

He leaned up, intent on getting to the knife, before he realized his pistol would probably be more useful. The thought almost made him smile. Almost. She'd be pleased she'd finally beaten that into his thick skull.

He hadn't had enough attention to spare for that passing thought, and he paid for it when what felt like a rock slammed into the back of his head.

Roy Mustang remained where he'd fallen a moment, then another, but nothing else happened. It seemed like everything was somehow quieter, and brighter. He felt like he was on his back instead of his chest, which was contributing to one hell of a case of vertigo, and worse, after careful consideration he decided that the fighting was over.

There must have been whole, entire, blissful minutes of unconsciousness that had passed, and he'd totally missed them.

He groaned, half in despair at being conscious again, half because his head felt as if it had been split open, and with his luck, the second was probably true. Hadn't he just been thinking he'd had a hard head? Clearly it wasn't hard enough.

"You with us, sir?"

There was a gradual darkening, and Mustang took a slightly deeper breath, wondering how hard it would be to pass out again. The ground was digging quite sharply into his arm, or maybe the impact of elbow to rock had been more damaging than he'd originally thought. Someone patted his face, gently for an enlisted, but he winced, turning away from the contact.

"Major?"

Get away from me.

It occurred to him thinking it and saying it were two entirely separate things, so he settled for opening his eyes and glaring, which was far easier. There was, in fact, an Amestrian soldier hovering over him with concern, but he forgot his fury at being woken when a canteen was held to his lips. This served to make his head hurt worse, not better, but it did wonders for his mood.

"Thank you," he managed, when it was taken away. He was offered a hand so he accepted, and then he was pulled into a sitting position. Instinct ground into him over the course of the last month had him carefully removing the glove from his right hand without conscious thought, ignoring the so-familiar burning sensation, before he gingerly touched the back of his head.

More blood, and a hell of a bump, but for better or worse he'd survive it.

It just wasn't fucking fair. Why hadn't he stayed out for the rest of the trip? It had been almost fifty hours since he'd last slept, and here he probably had a nice concussion . . . his elbow ached sharply in protest of being bent, and he winced again.

"We were afraid he'd gotten you," the enlisted told him, relief evident in his voice, and why would that be when he'd so clearly failed to protect them?

Then again, he supposed they figured the scenario was the other way around. They had been sent by General Gran to pull him off the front lines and escort him back to base camp, so he could understand their confusion. They just didn't understand how easy it was for those damn priests to get by the front lines in pairs and come in from behind the lines. They didn't understand how easy it was for a pair of Ishbalans to take out an entire garrison. Particularly one that was as well-prepared as the pair that had attacked them.

Speaking of which- "Report."

The enlisted saluted. "Eight men dead, sir, and another two on the way. Just two red-eyes. Not sure how many were out there."

So, both of them. "Supplies?" Well, supplies wouldn't be a problem if a fifteen-man party had been taken down by ten. He turned his head carefully to his left, where he last recalled his attacker and rescuer rolling, and found a blonde soldier with his throat opened from ear to ear.

So if the Ishbalan had gotten the knife back, who hit him over the head?

"Reynolds figures we're about twelve miles off base camp, so enough to get there. We should get there by midnight or so, if we push on through the night."

Mustang gave no signal saying he agreed with the course of action or wished to change it, but the enlisted seemed to take the hint, and left him alone to contemplate his headache and the best course of action. They'd been attacked in the hottest part of the afternoon, which the Ishbalans usually didn't do. No one in their right mind crossed the desert in this heat, native or not, so the fact that it had happened meant trouble.

He was being targeted. It explained why Gran would send half a platoon to recall him rather than radio. Not that his orders were any clearer when given by mouth. No reason for the recall, no further orders, just an ASAP recall from the front lines back to base camp. And considering how crucial he'd been to keeping the front lines in _front_ of base camp, and how hard they'd been getting hit lately-

Of course, it was only the sections of the line containing alchemists. Though he was beginning to think the priests were taking a special interest in him. Maybe they didn't like black-haired men.

He rotated his head the other way, stretching out his aching neck, and focused on a sand-colored soldier taking shelter under a too-small rock. He, too, was blonde, or at least the sun had bleached him that way, and his eyes were closed. He was still clutching his rifle tightly, though his right forearm had been slashed and his handkerchief had been bound tightly just above his elbow. While at first he'd mistaken the man for resting, he could see now that he was breathing shallowly and irregularly, and there was a faint twitch in his left leg.

Roy turned away. So that was what he'd meant by 'two on the way.' The Ishbalan 'fire,' the condensed venom from the scorpions they called piros, was a death sentence. Even exposure on unbroken skin would cause days of fever and tremors, and in a desert it meant death nearly as often as getting it into the bloodstream. It was a neurotoxin, and the priests put it both on their arrowtips as well as their knives. It was by far the most effective weapon in the Ishbalan arsenal. Besides numbers and persistence.

He knew Dr. Marcoh had been studying it before he'd been called away, and while he'd been tempted to look at the chemical structure a time or two himself, he hadn't had much of an opportunity. They'd all learned to recognize the source, however – tiny blue-shelled scorpions that liked nothing better than military-issue boots. Copperhead antivenom was occasionally used as a successful treatment, if it was done soon enough, but of course it was a difficult drug to get and even harder to store, so as far as the enlisted were concerned it was completely unavailable.

Certainly the medic that had accompanied this platoon wouldn't be able to do more than he'd done, which was tie off the affected limb and delay the inevitable.

Which was what the priests were doing in the first place. Poison-tipped blades or not, they had to get close enough to use them, and while it was true that a priest could take out twenty enlisted, there were far more enlisted than there were priests. Even taking him out would only give them a brief reprieve before another alchemist was assigned to his area, and another. There were some that were far more effective than he was, and with rumors of a new alchemic amplifier on the way-

Mustang shook his head, testing his balance before he stood. He wanted the war over, but not like that.

"Your orders, major?"

Set up camp and wake me up in two days.

"We continue, sergeant. The priests attack in pairs. The rest of this area should be clear, and we have sufficient water."

The sergeant saluted sharply, and he stood stock-still, getting used to the revolution of the planet again. The enlisted scrambled over the rocks, taking what they could from their fellows and murmuring brief words of prayer over the fallen. They didn't have the men to take them back, nor the time to bury them.

Their mothers had been promised that their boys wouldn't be left in the desert. Another pleasant lie in distant Central. By the time it was exposed, it wouldn't matter. In the time a group could be dispatched to get the bodies, the desert would have consumed them, and it would be impossible to tell the Amestrians from the Ishbalans.

That was one thing Ishbala had right. They both broke down into the same thing. Dust.

He rubbed his fingertips together, trying to gauge how torn the pads were. They'd already scabbed over, it was one thing the dry air was good for, and it flaked off his fingers. They were oozing that clear fluid again, too, and he went ahead and pulled the glove back on. It would dry soon enough, and while his gloves were stained, the enlisted wouldn't know where the blood had come from unless they saw the state of his hands.

And he wasn't going to let anyone see the state of his hands. He couldn't afford to. In fact, he was half-afraid Gran was recalling him to ask him why he hadn't completely subdued his sector yet.

Motion at his right caught his attention, and he glanced to see one of the enlisted stripping down the wounded soldier. His eyes had half-opened at some point, but they weren't seeing earthly things, and his hand had only tightened on the rifle in death.

He'd passed away right there among them, and no one had even acknowledged it.

"Leave it." This time his mouth said it before his brain thought it, and it took the enlisted a moment to realize that the dark-eyed weapon was talking to him.

"Sir?"

"The rifle. Leave it."

"But sir-"

"That's an order." He wanted to explain that the priests wouldn't take it, since the mechanism had been transmuted in a factory in Central, but it would take too much effort, and honestly the only thing a rank of Major had brought him was a pain in his ass and the ability to forgo arguing. It was dictating, but he didn't care, and the enlisted saluted sharply.

"Yessir! May I relieve the sergeant of his food and supplies, sir?"

Mustang inclined his head.

In ten minutes a company that had been reduced to less than half its original size was on its way again.

Two more never-ending hours passed throb by throb, and Roy counted them by putting one foot in front of the other, occasionally stretching his hands to uncrust his fingers from the gloves. He knew he appeared indifferent and aloof, but that didn't matter so much. It was better than the alternative, which was the truth. He was exhausted and he wasn't sure how many more attacks they could withstand before he was completely shot. Alchemy took effort and concentration, and lack of rest and sleep had stolen both from him. If these men around him realized how weak the great Flame Alchemist truly was, they wouldn't continue so eagerly, they wouldn't waste their own precious energy scanning the horizons, trying to keep him safe.

If they knew, they'd let him die like that sand-colored soldier, and then they'd take his supplies and leave him for the sun.

He supposed in the great scheme of things it was better that it was in a desert, where bad technique wasn't likely to take out a thousand acres of farmland. He couldn't accidentally burn anything but humans and piros, and the fewer he had to protect, the easier it would be. It was far too much like rationalizing a mistake for his liking, and he swatted at his wandering thoughts in irritation.

Another plus. Fewer bugs in the desert. Almost no mosquitoes.

But more rocks, the spiteful kind that would crawl into the toes of your socks when you weren't looking. It was so bad some officers had taken to not wearing socks at all. It was hard to tell during inspection, and no one on the front lines took inspection seriously anyway. There was no point. An Ishbalan would kill you whether or not you were wearing socks, and they weren't thick enough to protect you from snakes or scorpions or anything else besides annoying small rocks.

Or annoying big rocks. He knew the spot; it was called the Lion's Gate, and it marked the road from East to Liore. It had been a hard-fought area, but that was months ago, and now it stood imposing and empty in its bare desert, the way it had been before the uprising, before anyone had needed to fortify the road. Even the bulletwounds on its granite face had been washed away by the constantly blowing sand, and now there was no evidence at all that man had ever fought on the spot.

Mustang looked the rocks over, though, just to be sure. If he was going to make a camp to escape the heat of the day, he would do it here.

Or course, if he did, he would have spotted them several miles ago and hidden. The risk was too big to take.

"Split off. We'll go around," he croaked, but loudly enough that the sergeant heard. He repeated the order, marking the groups, and with a single word they fell into two lines.

Such discipline. Gran would have been proud of how quickly they responded, and how quickly they got cut down.

Just because the Ishbalans wouldn't transmute guns or use transmuted goods didn't mean they didn't have guns of their own, and lined up targets made for easy targets. The sergeants at the heads of both columns were down almost before the first synchronized step had been taken, and suddenly there was a pile of people on top of him and he was on the ground with his right hand pinned beneath his chest.

"Move!" he yelled sharply, struggling to get up, but the soldiers were intent on covering him, and through the roar of gunfire he wasn't even sure they heard him. One of the men covering him jerked, and his weight increased tenfold, pushing him further into the sand. Gritting his teeth, Mustang freed his left arm enough to get his fingers poised, but he couldn't pick up his head to see what was going on. The sand directly to his left jumped into the air, and he knew he'd been spotted.

"Fall back!" he bellowed, as loudly as he could with a flattened diaphragm, and then he snapped his fingers.

Burn burn burn burn burn burn!

He knew where the other column would have gone, knew that no one had charged the rocks. The newly formed scabs were immediately broken, and he used the sparks he'd already created to spawn new flames. He couldn't easily and quickly move existing fire, however; the gas would ignite before it had been gathered in the proper concentrations and lines. By sustaining the fire, all he could really do is create weak but widespread explosions, and burn the living daylights out of everything in the area.

So he torched the granite area, as much of it as he could, and he used the natural winds to swirl flames around the structure a couple times to get anyone that might have jumped off looking for safety. It was impossible to keep track of all the currents of the desert wind striking and breaking off and whirling around the only tall rocky structure in sight, and it wasn't long before he was only controlling one lone flame, keeping it safe in a lee in the rocks, and he used the currents to bring him more oxygen-

Bingo. He heard the explosion clearly, though he couldn't tell how big it was, and there was blood in his eyes, so he closed them. Only he was sure it wasn't his. Blood in his mouth, too. He spat it out, feeling the trickle coming from his cheek, and from there maybe his ear? There was a tickle-

The men that had been covering him had been killed. It was their blood, neither warm nor cool to his skin.

He knew he'd lost the fire in that last uncontrolled explosion, and he knew there would be no more creating any, and he didn't hear a single gunshot nor a single shout. He heard nothing at all but settling dust and rocks from the final blast, and the wind. The men that had covered him with their bodies were silent and still, and they would have been easy shots for any snipers. If they were hit, they were dead, and if they were faking it, they were doing a great job. He heard nothing at all from the other column, couldn't tell if they'd fled or all been cut down as well.

And then he was reasonably sure he fell into tragically brief, blissful sleep, because the next thing he knew, one of the bodies above him shifted, and there was light on his face.

This time, though, he didn't care enough to open his eyes. He was done. If it was an enemy, he was dead or captured no matter what he did now. There was still weight pressing down on him, there was nowhere to run, and his gloves were too blood-soaked to use. The best he could do would be to suffocate them, but with the breeze it would be difficult on the best of days, and he was just too exhausted.

And if it was his one of his men, well, they could set up camp and do the same that had been done to them, and let him sleep the night.

But then another of the weights skidded off him, obviously not resistant in the slightest, and he heard a musical language that he'd never bothered to learn. His left hand had still been visible, and that wrist was grabbed and held up at such an odd angle he thought his arm might break. It was enough to make him gasp, so he held his breath instead, hoping that they couldn't see his chest or back moving through the blood and the cloth and the last man, half-draped over his middle.

They couldn't see his right hand, either. He supposed, if the blood was dry, he could get a spark, but he would certainly risk torching himself along with them. He was too exhausted for the kind of control that attack would take.

No, he'd been right the first time. He was captured or dead. Usually the Ishbalans didn't take prisoners, but these weren't priests, not if they'd been using guns.

The glove was ripped off his hand, his wrist almost going with it, and it was with extreme relief that he felt his arm dropped back to the hot sand. Almost immediately thereafter was the sharp report of a rifle, at some distance, and it wasn't until the other one threw himself to the ground, then another distant shot echoed, that he realized someone was shooting at the Ishbalans.

In fact, someone had already shot them.

He heard no more motion to his left, though he waited quite a long time he was pretty sure he hadn't fallen asleep in the interim. When it was worth risking, he cracked open an eye, but of course all he could see was his shoulder and some sand. He raised his head after a moment, knowing there was enough blood on him that he could fake extreme disorientation and get away with it, and he found himself staring at a pair of red eyes.

They couldn't see him, though.

The other one was about five feet away, and had taken a round to the chest. He didn't seem to be breathing, but of course with the constant wind it was difficult to tell, just as it had been hard for them to get a read on him. Curiosity got the better of him, and Mustang struggled into a sitting position, craning his head back in the direction of the gunshots.

In the direction they'd come.

There was a blue uniform, though it was almost too dusty to pick out, wandering in what seemed an almost aimless fashion towards him. It stumbled repeatedly but didn't go down, and it had a rifle slung over its shoulder. About midway between them was a body, and then immediately around him were three of the enlisted.

The other column hadn't even been that spread out.

They were all dead. All of them.

Mustang pulled himself out from under the third, muttering an apology as he did so, and he retrieved the glove the man had inadvertently removed when he'd been shot. It had been a head shot, but not a particularly clean one. Then again, at that distance with that wind, it was still impressive one had been made at all. He couldn't have done it.

That wasn't saying much, though. He wasn't a soldier. He was a human weapon. They were entirely different things.

He turned to look back at Lion's Gate, noting that all the scraggly bushes were totally gone, and that there were bodies there as well. So it had just been a group of traveling Ishbalan soldiers they'd encountered, because they'd been traveling themselves when they shouldn't have been.

If he hadn't woken up after the ambush by the priests, the Ishbalans would have probably moved on before he and his group got here. It was just a round of bad timing.

Mustang glanced back toward the tottering figure, then at his feet. The least he could do was line the bodies up properly, but for now, he borrowed a canteen and headed back the way he'd come. The blood that had trickled across his face had dried, and he had mostly rubbed it out of his eyelashes by the time the other figure was close enough to hail.

Of course, he didn't have to. He knew who the figure was.

He was the sand-colored soldier that had died three hours ago.

They met without word, and he accepted when Mustang offered him the canteen. His arm was still bound with his handkerchief, though his grip on his rifle was much weaker. Roy knew better than to ask to carry it for the man, so he offered him his shoulder instead, and once he was finished drinking, the two trudged back to the rock formation.

They stripped the dead the same way the sand-colored soldier himself had been, and when they had collected all the food, water, and ammunition they could carry, Mustang picked out a decently shielded flat on the lower portion of the formation, and the two gratefully collapsed.

The sun was set by the time Mustang opened his eyes again, but this time it had been glorious, delicious sleep, and he felt as though he'd actually experienced it. He wasn't sure what had woken him, doubtless a drill sergeant couldn't have managed it but something much softer must have. The wind was quite a bit cooler, and would only get worse, and he picked up a particularly heavy head to see what was around.

He'd already burned away all the brush, of course, so there wasn't much in the way of fuel that wasn't also useful for something else, such as cover or clothing. He'd also, for better or worse, burned both the Ishbalans and their supplies.

However, there was something that they had plenty of, and it just so happened to also make an excellent oven. Without thinking, he snapped.

Burn.

It hurt so badly he actually lost concentration altogether, so that the brilliantly blue flame was there and gone in almost a blink. More than long enough to scare the shit out of his companion, who shot bolt upright with a shaky oath.

"Sorry," he apologized through his teeth. Damn, but it felt like he'd just ripped his own fingers off.

His companion seemed to be having trouble calming down; the sergeant's breathing continued to shake. "Hell of a way to say hello, sir," he finally managed, in a voice that wasn't much steadier than his breathing.

Shivering. He'd been cut with a knife blade – or an arrow – that had been dipped in piros.

"Just trying to warm us up," he replied after a moment, and this time he massaged his left fingertips with his thumb for several moments before snapping. It still hurt, but not nearly as badly as his right had, and this time he was able to maintain the almost white flame. It was quite small but searingly hot, and he fed it until he was dizzy. He wasn't sure how long that was, but when a light breeze dissipated his cloud of oxygen to the point that the flame was constantly orange and unstable he finally gave up.

Not that it mattered; the cranium-sized piece of rock was glowing slightly from the heat, and it radiated it as well as a wood-burning stove.

Quite a long time passed before his eyesight was re-accustomed to the darkness, and once it was, he licked his split lower lip, considering his options. The sergeant was still shivering, that much was obvious, but he seemed to appreciate the heat, because after a while he let out a little sigh.

"How're you doing, sergeant?" He didn't really know what to say to the man. He'd left him for dead in the middle of the desert with no shelter, no water, and no supplies. For all intents and purposes, he should be. He was completely untreated, save that tied-off arm, and it clearly wasn't completely stopping circulation because he was still able to grasp with that hand.

The sergeant swallowed loudly, and Mustang heard him root around a moment before he located and popped open a canteen. "I've been better."

Now that was an understatement. Roy's stomach growled, embarrassingly loudly in the silence the wind seemed to accentuate, and the sergeant chuckled. "Sounds like you have been too, sir."

He found himself wondering, quite suddenly, if he was talking to a ghost. All he could see was a man-shaped rock, the wind was whipping around their little shelter and it seemed like any moment it might just pass through and blow the sand ghost away like any other desert dust.

"It's Mustang." Ghosts had no use for rank.

"Havoc, sir," the sand-colored man replied, setting the canteen down on the rock beneath him with a muffled metallic clank. "Help yourself to the grub. I don't think my belly's fit for it yet."

He felt his eyebrow raise, but he did reach into the pack he'd taken from one of the enlisted, rooting around for a tin. It would be saltier than just about anything ought to be, but it was better than nothing at all.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

It took the ghost – Havoc, he reminded himself – a long time to respond, but his voice still held a quality of relief to go with the tremors. "The heat helps."

"How is it you're still alive?" It sort of blurted out of him, and he tried to suck the words back into his throat as he put all his concentration on the tin. His right hand was burning quite badly, which probably meant it was infected, and that was no surprise at all. Fuck, of all the times to be dragged before the general-

"Dunno," Havoc murmured, shifting in the darkness. "Got bit a few times by copperheads when I was younger. This feels about the same."

Mustang paused as he fished what he hoped was a cube of some kind of meat in a soup of some kind of gravy out of the tin. As he recalled, most copperhead attacks on children were fatal, due to the venom and the size of the child. This ghost of his was tall, taller than he was, so even assuming he'd been a tall kid . . . neither of them were over twenty. It wasn't like it had been that long ago.

"How did that happen?"

Havoc coughed, and some of Roy's biology courses started coming back to him. Copperhead venom, like scorpion venom, was a neurotoxin, so tremors, convulsions, excessive salivation, difficulty swallowing . . . but he didn't sound like he was choking, and outside of what he now knew was shivering, this Havoc didn't seem particularly distressed.

"Found a nest in the barn when I was tossing the moldy hay. Got me pretty good, and I pitched out of the loft just to make things fun." He made a weak sound Roy chose to interpret as a laugh. "Ma almost fell out."

Havoc fell silent, and soon the tin was empty of its almost-meat, and Roy's stomach was realizing he'd sustained a hell of a knock to the head and it wasn't too happy with all this salt. He drained his canteen to the halfway mark, staring at the faint outline of his ghost on the other side of the small chasm.

His body was too exhausted to stay awake and keep the man company, but there was some miniscule piece of his brain that was still chewing on neurotoxin. His eyes didn't need to see for his brain to work, though, and there was bright sunlight when next he used them.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Seeing how this really is a drabble I guess I don't feel the need for author's notes, but it's habit. Don't worry - working on the next chapter of PAA as we speak, just figured I should start posting this since I was explaining it to Liffey but then thinking, huh, I guess it would be easier if he just read it, and then why not just post it for everyone else to read too so the same sitch doesn't happen again .

This'll be a series because I have a feeling that I won't be able to put PAA away entirely, so it's sort of a sandbox for me (or anyone else) to feed drabbles in the PAA universe to the masses.


	2. Sand and Shade part 2

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

They'd slept the night.

Roy Mustang blinked a few times, evaluating everything. He ached from head to toe, his head had a dull receding and swelling throb to it, his left butt-cheek was asleep, and the piece of granite was quite cool. He picked up his right hand, wincing again as his elbow reminded him it was still unhappy from yesterday, and he examined his gloves.

He looked like he'd been wearing them while preparing raw meat for the fire. Bloodied fingertips, stuck permanently to his skin. His brain rather easily supplied him with transmutation circles that would take care of the stains, and he held off on actually removing it, peeling his left off instead. It stuck to his fingertips, but they were only bleeding slightly, and not oozing that clear fluid. It was no worse than removing an adhesive bandage.

Mustang peered over the rocks, taking in the horizon from the way they'd come, but he didn't see anything. Early morning was a good time to move, so if the Ishbalans behind the front lines had been cutting across this road regularly, he could expect them any time in the next few hours or so. They needed to get going before then.

Assuming his ghost was still here.

Roy turned back to the camp, to the sand-colored lump that was curled around itself on the opposite side of their makeshift stove. His left hand found a throat, quite cold to the touch but still soft and shivering, and a weak, fast pulse flitted against his badly numbed fingertips. The ghost stirred slightly, opening pale blue eyes that didn't really seem to see him.

"Sir?" the ghost slurred.

"At ease, sergeant," he replied softly, just in case they were unknowingly sharing the rock with another party. The ghost blinked, then closed his eyes again, swallowing with obvious pain and difficulty. He was a little afraid to give the man any water, in case it choked him, but clearly he was worse than before and doing nothing would result in his death.

Again, his brain started throwing elements at him, and he paid more attention this time, stretching out his stiffness before performing a quick inspection of their camp and Lion's Gate.

Still secure. Nothing from the direction of base camp, which was a little disappointing, and nothing the way they'd come. The bodies were more than half-buried in the sand already, but he made a mental note to take care of them as soon as he could protect himself.

Which meant cleaning his gloves, and possibly fitting something over his fingertips to prevent bleed-through again. He did have several uniforms at his disposal . . .

Then his stomach cramped, and he found himself spending the next half-hour uncomfortably crouched on a rock. It didn't do much for his still-tingling butt, but it did give him time to scrawl a few arrays in the nearby sand.

Neurotoxins worked on the nervous system, so a buffer or something that would attract the toxin instead of his tissues . . . like a filter. Something that would bond to it in his bloodstream so his body could get rid of it.

It had been years since he'd narrowed his alchemical research to atmospheric gases and combustion, but he still recalled some of the 'pointless' alchemy his sensei had made him learn. How to make pretty horses and encourage plant growth and the Five Rules and applying them to all eighty-seven elements . . . but applying it to something as complex as venom was stretching it. It was like the hit to the back of the head had killed all the brain cells he'd ever used for equations. He was smart; some called him brilliant, and he was sure with more sleep and a library he'd figure something out, but he had neither, and the more he scrawled, the faster he realized how much he had forgotten. All he needed was a filter for the blood. Charcoal came to mind, it was non-toxic to the body but then again, he'd have to get it in the man's blood, only in small amounts – no, that wouldn't work . . .

Even after his bowels had calmed down and he even felt ready to start trying to eat again he found himself scribbling in the dust with a pinkie, working his way through chemical formulas he'd learned rote and still remembered, hoping the sight of them would help.

He remembered chemical bonding, hell, he used it every day here in the desert, but he didn't even know the chemical structure of the venom. Eventually he decided he would need an actual piro, and as both he and Havoc were still wearing their boots, he was going to have to look further than their immediate camp.

And all this time, he was burning morning daylight, and increasing their chances of being stumbled upon, by one side or the other. He wasn't strong enough to carry the man ten miles, not if they came under attack and not in this sun. Havoc didn't appear to be able to stand on his own anymore. He could either leave the man to die again, or he could give an antivenin a shot.

And the first wasn't really an option.

Finding the little blue-backed scorpion was easy. Collecting it, not quite so much, but boiling it down was highly satisfying, and soon he had something at least a little like the paste the priests used. It smelled quite acrid, and he wondered if he was supposed to have shelled it first.

Oh well.

"What're y'doing, sir?"

Mustang glanced up at the ghost, looking even more like sand now that they'd spent a night in it. "Research. Would you like some water?"

The sergeant stared at him quite blankly, and it was hard to tell whether he was shocked that a superior officer was offering him something, or he wasn't really awake. The ghost's head dropped slightly as he tried to see the camp.

"'s light."

Roy moved some of the paste to one of his transmutation circles. They were drawn in dust, so he was actively using the array glued to his right hand at the same time to keep air movement to a minimum, by supporting a buffer of air. The concentration required was significant, so he couldn't spare the ghost a look, but he did answer.

"It's a few hours after dawn . . ." He trailed off as the reaction produced a black powder. That was unexpected.

". . . Uh, so nothing to worry about." Now he really did need charcoal, the stupid protein from the scorpion's shell had probably caused this. "Can you swallow some water?"

The sergeant moved his lips slightly, as if he'd licked them, only his tongue hadn't moved. "No sir."

Mustang frowned, looking at his opaque, coarse black powder unhappily. He had lots of granite, not charcoal. He had no filter at all, save something he could make out of their clothes, and even then . . .

It wouldn't stand up to the pressure.

He thought about catching another piro, then tossed the idea. It had taken almost an hour to boil down, and it was getting nice and hot and their chances of getting caught here were getting higher and higher. Any traveler in sight would want to spend the hot part of the day here.

What was he thinking, that he could make an antivenin on a rock with nothing but what was on their backs. He should have offered to do it hours ago. Hell, he shouldn't have even asked, he should have just done it.

"Sergeant."

His ghost blinked.

"I need to look at your arm."

He twitched his head to the side fractionally and erratically, clearly trying to watch as Roy eased the cold limb out of the officer's lap. There was still a pulse, faint, and the arm was quite swollen. But it was more than inflamed around the cut, and as he pressed on the translucent, bulging skin around the lip of the wound, the sergeant made a keening sound.

"I'm sorry." And he was, he was pressing way too hard just so he could feel, but there was certainly a collection of liquid there, and whether any of the venom on the knifeblade had been trapped in it was debatable.

If he couldn't even swallow, it was such a longshot. But surely dying of shock would be a hell of a lot faster than dying like this. Even if-

Not that it was his decision. Just his to offer.

"You might survive this, if we cut away the affected tissue." Affected tissue being entire arm, of course, but he didn't feel that needed to be explicitly stated. The medic on site hadn't considered it an option because of course Havoc would have bled to death, but being the Flame Alchemist, as gimpy as he was, he could still stop the bleeding.

Havoc was panting shallowly, and saliva he couldn't swallow was trickling out of the corner of his mouth. He shook his head.

"Wan' keep it, sir." He didn't try to wrestle it out of Roy's grip, but he did ball his fist weakly. "Came into th' world with it, shoul' leave that way."

"You'll die."

His head bobbed jerkily, in what Roy assumed was supposed to be a nod.

"'igarette."

Mustang refused to make a face. He disliked smoking, it was a filthy habit and if people knew the half of what they were pulling into their lungs . . . cigarettes were worse than just about any smoke he could design.

"Where are they, sergeant?"

His ghost didn't move, and after a short time he started looking for them himself. He found them in the man's upper right pocket, and wondered how the hell the soldier stripping him had missed them. They were contraband, but one of the most commonly smuggled luxuries a soldier could buy. In fact, they were commonly used instead of currency for things like extra rations and even ammunition.

The pack was half-gone, but well-folded, and he withdrew a slightly bent roll of tobacco and paper, placing it between the soldier's lips. He gloved and used his left hand again, and it hurt, but it was worth it to see his ghost's eyes open for the first time that day, and truly see, as he took his second puff.

Of course. The nicotine would enter his bloodstream very quickly. Also, if he was addicted, part of his misery could have been withdrawal. And it wasn't just the nicotine. So many other chemicals in there that a body could become dependent upon-

Roy blinked, and stared at the lit cigarette.

"Sergeant, I'm going to need to confiscate the rest of these," he said smoothly, and palmed the pack.

Havoc didn't react one way or the other, probably too happy with the fact that he'd gotten one at all, and when Roy saw it was glued to the man's lips and not about to fall out he returned to his coarse black powder.

Thirty minutes, six transmutations, and extremely sore fingers later, he knew enough of the chemical makeup of piro venom.

A few more dust equations and he also knew how to render it inert.

After that, though, he was stuck. Making it inactive in the man's blood was one thing, but then it would still be floating around, and if his kidneys weren't in tip-top shape, the cure was going to be as bad as the poison. Worse, his antivenin wouldn't just bond to the venom. It would attract other, healthy things in the man's blood. Granted, not as aggressively, and there wasn't much besides marrow it would stick to, but as big as the molecules would be, they'd be filtered by his liver and kidneys quickly.

So while it might get three or four circulations through, that was about it. And if he was right, and the venom was slowly trickling into his ghost's veins by way of the wound and that handkerchief, three trips around wouldn't fully bond all of it. Unless he untied the handkerchief, of course. Then he'd have to hope his cure bonded to the venom before it killed him.

Dr. Marcoh would have been able to distill a far better antivenin.

Havoc was still alive when he reappeared with a handful of what looked very much like the ghost – clumped dust. "Havoc."

This time he got eyes that looked slightly more alert.

"I need you to swallow this."

The man used his thick tongue to dislodge the spent butt from his lips. "Don' think I can, sir."

But he was already dumping it into the man's mostly-drained canteen. It would taste – well, it would taste just awful, he was sure, but the less water, the more likely Havoc was to be able to swallow it. If he could chase it with water, it would get absorbed faster, too. A long time ago he'd learned tables on how long it took an adult human to fully absorb certain drugs taken orally, but of course he hadn't paid attention because he was an alchemist, not a soldier.

They were two entirely different things.

"You can. Up."

The ghost was still mostly curled over, and shifting him into a position he wouldn't choke in was difficult. At first he'd thought the tension in the man's frame was from pain and fever, but he soon found it was muscular contractions he doubted Havoc had any control over. They had to have hurt like hell, too, as dehydrated and potassium-deficient as the soldier was apt to be, but outside of a few moans he didn't belie it.

He might have been feeling so terrible that cramps were the least of his worries.

Once his head was tilted up, Roy put the canteen to his lips, trickling the smallest amount into his mouth. If he coughed it up or it dribbled out, there was no more to be had, and he was guessing on dosages as well.

"Drink it, sergeant."

His adam's apple twitched, but then he started to choke, and Roy covered his mouth with a hand, refusing to let him spit it out.

"Drink!"

He struggled briefly, but Roy held on grimly, clamping the canteen between his knees so he could pinch the soldier's nostrils closed, and wondered if you could actually drown someone in a desert. But a moment later instinct won out, and the ghost swallowed noisily. His eyes were squeezed shut and Roy didn't feel like pondering how much it had hurt the man or how much he'd actually felt like he was choking.

He removed his hands, letting Havoc splutter. "There's more," he warned, bringing the canteen up again, and again, pale blue eyes opened and they looked right at him. They were watering a little, but still clear. He nodded jerkily, and Roy gave him slightly more.

Each time the ghost choked, and each time Roy wouldn't let him go until he'd swallowed it. It was a long and fairly unpleasant process for both of them, and when there was only silt in the bottom of the canteen, Roy released the ghost to get his own, pouring in enough to suspend what small amount was left.

"More?"

It was plaintive and complaining but not overwhelmingly so, and Mustang found himself cracking a smile. "More."

"You're killing me."

Speaking of which . . .

"After you finish this, there's something else." He carried the canteen back over, but this time the ghost took it in his left hand, and after visibly preparing himself, he downed the rest in one quick glug.

Roy expected some sort of protest as he touched the handkerchief, but Havoc just eyed him.

"I don't know if this will work," he admitted. "But I know it won't if we don't let blood into your arm."

Havoc looked thoughtful for a moment. "I'm likely dead anyway," he pointed out, almost reasonably. "But the arm's been tied off tight. Don't know if that's a problem."

It could be for any number of reasons, but again, as he'd so eloquently said, he was probably dead no matter how it happened. He seemed to accept that, so long as he went with all his limbs, so Roy gently untied the cotton, releasing the pressure slowly. The ghost looked quite discomforted, but he grit his teeth and he bore it, and Roy watched the slightly blue skin he'd exposed for some sign of circulation.

Sure enough, the blue slowly faded.

"Arm looks okay." Not that he was a doctor. "How do you feel?"

The ghost didn't answer him right away, and when he did, it seemed he was having a hard time moving his jaw. "Cold, sir."

He wasn't shivering, though, and Roy wasn't sure that was a good sign or a bad one. Even in the afternoon shade it had to be at least ninety-five degrees, and the sergeant was still cold to the touch.

"You'll warm up soon." One way or the other.

He stayed with the ghost over half an hour, trying to get more water into him and generally keeping an eye on symptoms. He didn't seem to want anything else to drink, but he kept the improvised antidote down, and after about thirty minutes he dropped into what Roy hoped was a light sleep.

- x -

Mustang surveyed the rock again, ensuring no one had snuck up, and scanned the horizons, finding them empty. It was now afternoon, and no one in their right mind would be traveling. They were probably safe till evening. Hopefully Havoc would be fit for travel by then.

Peeling his right glove off was an unpleasant affair in the extreme, and he inspected the bruised pads of his fingers, finding wide, weeping sores rather than cuts. He'd simply worn the tissue right off them, and there would be no quick healing from it. Worse, they seemed infected, or at least quite inflamed. There wasn't much to treat them with, but he wound the cigarette filters around them, partially for padding and partially for bandaging, and transmuted the blood out of both the gloves.

The sticky quality of the cotton filters fit his fingers quite snugly, and if one didn't look too closely, they couldn't see it at all. Whether he could actually snap through it was something else entirely, and he decided he wasn't going to test that until he had to. If they made base camp, he wouldn't have to demonstrate his alchemy, and Gran would never know.

Besides, he would have sufficient calluses once everything healed. It wasn't like it could happen again. No need to let the general know how close it was.

The hours wound by, watching the man-shaped sand keep breathing, eating cold rations. The sun had nearly set by the time he'd cleaned up camp and determined what they could afford to carry with them, and he realized the ghost was awake only by a faint glinting of his open eyes.

So he'd pulled through. Or at the very least, his crappy antivenin had further prolonged the inevitable.

"Havoc."

The glinting eyes blinked, and then the sergeant took a deep breath, uncurling himself painfully. "Sir."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like death warmed over, sir." He opened his mouth wide, and the crack of his jaw was audible. Then he yawned.

"You up for a little hiking, sergeant?"

It took him a few minutes, but the ghost gradually got his feet under him, standing shakily and cradling his injured arm. "Don't know how far I can go." He paused, visibly considering his next words. "With all due respect, major, you should leave me here, and send a party back. I'll just slow you down."

Ordering a major. His ghost was definitely on the mend. "I will take the sergeant's opinion under advisement," he replied coolly, and the ghost stumbled a couple feet away to relieve himself. Roy went ahead and heated their rations this time, using the old-fashioned method of cooking fuel, and the sergeant managed to get down some food as well as more water. It perked him right up, as Mustang had expected, and when they were finished and he'd buried their trash, he came over to crouch in front of the ghost, pulling out the now half-empty first aid kit the medic had been carrying.

Havoc blinked at him in surprise, and Roy fished some tape and gauze out of the box. "Your arm," he said in explanation, and the sergeant glanced down at it.

It was much less swollen, but there still remained the fact that he'd been sliced open, either with arrow or knife, and the wound had gone pretty much untreated. He should have thought about it earlier, but since it had no longer been bleeding much and putting pressure on it would have only speeded the re-introduction of any venom, it wouldn't have helped.

Now, though he didn't have enough gauze to make an effective sling, at least they could wrap it. Havoc accepted the treatment, and when Roy was finished he caught the ghost eyeing the packs.

"It would be useful to have a decent marksman with me," he noted offhandedly, tucking the almost exhausted kit back into a pack. "There won't be much besides dunes between the Gate and base camp."

The sergeant glanced back east, the way they'd come. "Reckon you're right, sir," he finally murmured. "It'll be a clear night, and blue doesn't blend in well with sand."

Mustang decided not to correct him, and they each shouldered a pack and climbed carefully down from their camp. He took the heavier one over protest from the sergeant, and he also set an easy pace. It was going to get pretty chilly, but there was no point in exhausting the ghost just to keep them warm. If necessary he could make some glass, though he wanted to keep alchemy use to a minimum until after he'd seen Gran.

Besides, they'd be heading in the direction of base camp. Even if the Ishbalans were brave enough to cross the major Amestrian passageways, they wouldn't be stupid enough to get within five miles of base camp. At that distance they could theoretically be spotted with binoculars. Once they made half the journey, they were safe.

It was just the seven miles between here and there that would be the problem.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Swear it'll only be three parts. (I cheated. I finished it five months ago, which is the only reason I can say that.) I thought about posting it in just two parts, just to screw up my guesstimate again, but that's no fun at all. Everyone's gotta be right sometimes.

I'm well aware that it's unlikely that Mustang could learn enough about something as complex as venom in a few hours, but I figure that alchemy allows for things current chemistry doesn't. I also was kind of irritated at the lack of fic that presents Mustang as bright. He's the best combustion-based alchemist out there, apparently. That makes him pretty effing cool, in my book, and to be so young and such a high-ranking officer . . . we see Maes being brilliant, we know that Ed and Al are ridiculous smart, so where's the Mustang love? That and I like whumping on Havoc. As the next one of these will make _very_ obvious. ; )


	3. Sand and Shade part 3

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

Generally speaking, a good marching pace with light packs was five miles an hour. In sand, it was reduced to two and a half. With sun, two. Since they were traveling at night, on somewhat hard-packed sand, he figured they could make three miles an hour and sustain that pace. So they were only looking at a four hour hike, probably with an hour or two of resting. More than enough time to get them to base camp before they next had to worry about the sun.  
However, sticking to the road for those first seven miles might not be the safest idea, especially considering the number of bodies he'd found burned on Lion's Gate. Clearly there was more enemy movement between base camp and the front lines than they'd thought. If he decided to take to the dunes, the going would be a lot rougher and maintaining the pace would be much more difficult.

And he really couldn't carry the sergeant all the way there.

His ghost seemed to sense that he'd made an informed decision, or else was looking not to anger him. He made no 'suggestions' about the path Mustang had chosen, and the first few miles passed in companionable silence. Havoc seemed to save all his breath for walking, and that was fine with Mustang. The less noise they made the better, and now that he'd spent so much time in sand he probably blended almost as well as his ghost.

Eventually they came upon a drifting dune that afforded some protection from the permanent wind, and Mustang came to a halt, looking over what the starlight could show him. It seemed there was no better place in sight to have a rest, and Havoc was out of breath.

"Water break," he declared, letting the pack slip off his shoulders and catching it by the straps before placing it on the ground and withdrawing two canteens. The ghost collapsed gratefully into a lanky mass of arms and legs and accepted the canteen that was handed to him, and Mustang joined him, so they were sitting back to back, the safest way for a pair of soldiers to take a rest.

He couldn't help but notice the soldier had taken the east side. Still expecting that to be the most likely direction of attack. Still protecting him.

As if reading his mind, the ghost placed his canteen in the sand with an audible sigh of satisfaction. "Why'd you order them to leave my rifle with me?"

Roy capped his own canteen, staring at the west horizon. No glow of base camp, no way to know how far they'd really gone. Spending the day on Lion's Gate and getting some sleep had helped, though, both his body and his nerves.

"Friend of mine's in the sniper division," he finally answered. "You're obviously not, but that rifle you have isn't standard issue either. I figured you had to be the sharpshooter for the platoon. Sniper division always leaves the rifle with the sniper." She'd be proud of his efficient personality being beaten down by sentimentalism. "She said it's the best friend she's ever had. Named it, sleeps with it, cleans the slide when she doesn't have water to spare for drinking."

Against his back he felt the sergeant breathing, still elevated despite the rest. "Good eyes, sir." Then he could hear the man's mouth quirk as he added, "For a State Alchemist."

"Is there something on your mind, Havoc?"

"No sir," he responded innocently. "Most officers wouldn't know what kind of rifle I was carrying is all I meant. I shoot straight enough, just, but didn't pass the written examination."

Given his speech pattern, Roy was pretty sure the ghost hadn't had too much formal education. Still, he seemed to have a good deal of common sense, and knowing he'd made that headshot in the condition he'd been in, in that wind . . . whoever had failed him for a poor exam score was an idiot.

"Did you modify it yourself?"

"With help," he responded quietly. "This friend of yours, she more than a friend?"

Now it was Roy's turn to smirk. "That's a fairly personal question, Havoc."

"Call me Jean. Then it wouldn't be so personal."

Roy considered that before almost laughing. Good point. "Roy. Well, Jean, since you asked, as a matter of fact, she isn't. And not from my lack of trying."

The sergeant chuckled quietly. "She a major too?"

"Unfortunately not." Otherwise he could pursue her openly, though of course he never would. It lent her protection, if it was commonly known that a National Alchemist was interested in her. Their constant parlay back and forth kept up his reputation while keeping most of the boys off her back.

Jean nodded against his back. "You don't get more leeway than the rest of us in that department?"

Another excellent question. "I'm just a soldier," he responded mildly. "No different than any other major."

"Different enough," Havoc responded quietly, and Roy turned his head a little.

"I . . ." Had the alchemy really startled Havoc so badly? "I didn't mean to surprise you, yesterday-"

"With the fire?" Jean chuckled lightly. "No, sir, you didn't. Well, you did, but that's fine. Every soldier's got a weapon they're good at using. I was just thinking, aren't many majors that'd left my rifle with me. Aren't many that'd taken the risk to help me, either. Figured that was it for me."

Roy was still, and Havoc cleared his throat. "Guess I just wanted to thank you, sir."

He didn't really know what to say. "What made you get up and follow us?" Then he reflected, of all possible responses, that was quite probably the worst he could have picked.

"Orders," he responded promptly. "Got sent to the front lines to get you and bring you back. Seemed silly to keep laying there waiting to die, not if I could have walked and died as easy."

"You saved my life, you know." Surely the two surviving soldiers would have killed him, even if they didn't know what the symbols on the glove meant, they recognized it as the forbidden art. Not to mention the whirling tornado of flame that killed their comrades.

"I dunno about that, sir," the soldier stammered, suddenly tense against him. "Just took a couple shots at the enemy." He leaned forward, signaling that he was ready to go on. "'Course, it wouldn't have been such a close thing if you'd asked them to leave me more than the two rounds in the rifle."

Roy sat there a moment, bemused. "You only had two bullets."

Havoc stretched, then put his canteen back in his own pack, rather than Mustang's. "Nearly missed the first one, too." He shouldered the pack as Mustang stood. "Guess neither of us would be having this conversation if I had, so maybe we should both thank luck instead."

"I'll drink to that."

Jean gave him a hopeful look. "You have hooch?"

He granted the sergeant a broad grin. "No, but we _are_ heading to base camp."

A patch of sand immediately over the sergeant's shoulder suddenly leapt into the air, and Mustang wondered if it was a pair of piros fighting before he heard the crack of the rifle. Havoc dropped his pack, kneeling unhurriedly to the ground as Roy ducked himself, looking for the enemy.

Unfortunately, now that the sniper had given himself away, he wasn't stupid enough to fire again. The flash would be as bright as the sun in a clear night like this. Whoever it was would have to change positions before firing again to avoid getting picked off instantly-

Which Jean apparently already knew, as he was just finishing loading a fresh cartridge into his rifle.

"I thought you only had two bullets."

"Took these off the guy who took them off me," he replied easily, looking to the west, opposite the pale moon. Toward the longer shadows, despite the fact it was the direction of base camp. "Sorry I let 'em catch up," he added, bringing the rifle stiffly to his shoulder.

Roy couldn't tell if he was apologizing because he'd forced the rest stop or because he'd seen them coming but simply hadn't said anything. He expected it was the former. "Do you see anyone?"

"Not yet."

They remained crouched by the dune, getting protection at least in one direction, and scanned the nearby dunes for the sniper that had to be repositioning. The wind was whipping more fiercely now, slinging sand at them, and while it was a clear night, it was just too dark.

"How many bullets do you have, sergeant?"

"Twelve," he responded. "Also have fifteen rounds in a service pistol."

Pistol range in this wind would be minimal, and there had been a least a full second between the bullet striking and the report. They were farther out than that. Unless, of course, they weren't-

"Hold you fire," he ordered quietly, and then he raised his right hand, and carefully snapped his fingers. With the padding it wasn't enough to get a spark, and he rubbed his fingers together, dislodging the filter bandaging before trying again.

Burn.

The fire swirled around him, wild and out of control as the systematically moving air around their dune interacted with the wildly unpredictable higher winds. He forced a cloud of oxygen to wind around the dune.

Show me.

So many little eddies of wind, some so much like breathing, but he knew what he was looking for. Long, deep, slow breaths. The Ishbalans would saturate their blood with oxygen before they attacked, which made them seem inexhaustible to Amestrian troops, who became quickly out of breath in the heat.

Tell me where they are.

But nothing seemed like a steady pull and push, never the right volume of air. He searched more frantically, not wanting to expend the effort of burning the area. His flame was not for intimidation but light, was for Havoc, and the man seemed to be taking advantage of it, he thought he heard a rifle shot but he ignored it.

Find them for me.

It was impossible to control air currents farther out than a dozen yards to the extent he needed, and he uneasily concluded the enemy was farther than that. Depending on how many, flushing them out meant they might retreat out of both his and Havoc's ranges. Even this effort was causing him to sweat, and while it was easier to keep fire burning than actively control air currents, it would be impossible to center the flames on any one spot, all he could do was sweep the area and hope Havoc could finish off anyone that made themselves known.

Hope there were no more than twelve, and that the sergeant didn't miss.

"Havoc, I'm going to give you targets."

Go.

He reached behind him, then, towards the incoming wind, and he pulled oxygen into clouds he knew the atmosphere's current would help preserve. Each of these swept into their dune, igniting from his base flame and soaring out over the desert. He didn't watch where they went, only that they were on their way. His original flame sputtered, eager to escape the cloud he kept around himself.

Patience. Not until we find them.

Now he opened his eyes, and he watched. It was hard to see, as his fire kept being blown in front of him only to circle back, a cat impatient for an opportunity to dash through a glass door at the birds teasing it from a pane away. Havoc was alive and well, and there were five spent shells by his left knee. Roy was too blinded by the fire to make out any bodies, and he heard nothing as a sixth shell discharged from the barrel of the rifle to fall towards its brothers.

Incoming swirls continued to ignite, and he watched them impatiently, sending them out in all directions, finding all the eddies that allowed them to change direction suddenly. Movement-

And a seventh shell. As quick as he'd spotted the Ishbalan, Jean had taken him down.

Keep looking. Find them all.

More swirls, more concentrating. His flame was angry at being kept so captive, it caught a sudden draft and threatened to give him a kiss, and he frowned at it as a brief buffer of nitrogen fended it off.

Just a minute more. Bear with it a minute more.

But it grew more and more orange in its discontent, and still, that eighth shell never fell. He held out as long as he could, but with another gust he lost it altogether, and knelt there in the sand, breathing as though he'd just run the rest of the way to base camp.

It never used to wind him. It never used to hurt. Clearly a night's rest wasn't going to cut it. He needed more time.

"Mustang?"

He looked up to see Havoc crouched in front of him, rifle across his bent knees, and he realized that the other soldier's hands were on his shoulders, and his mouth tasted of sand. Confused, he scraped it off on his upper teeth before spitting it out.

"You with me, sir?"

He still didn't feel quite like himself several miles later, when they stopped again, this time at the sergeant's election. He seemed to be getting steadily better, though he was keeping his arm tightly against his body, and Roy thankfully drained the last of his canteen as he toyed with giving up his jacket to give the other man a sling.

Havoc, for his part, had also finished off his canteen, and he eyed it a moment before regretfully putting it back in the pack. "Figure we'll make it by morning?"

They were still on the road, so it wasn't like they'd gotten lost. And since Havoc had come from base camp, he'd know if it had moved. "Before."

Havoc nodded, easing his arm into his lap and huddling around it in the cold air. The wind had caused the temperatures to drop very swiftly, and he would have had to bury his hands almost to the wrist in sand to reach warmth again. And that was a good way to get bitten by sand fleas.

A little curiously, he inspected his right hand. He'd moved the filter to snap, but luckily there was no stain on the outside of the glove, and he shoved the cotton filters back into position.

"You always talk to it?"

Roy Mustang glanced up. "Hmm?" Had he been muttering at the glove . . . ?

"The fire," Havoc clarified. "Couldn't hear what you were saying, only that you were telling someone to do something, and it wasn't me."

Mustang considered a moment. He really had no idea, though he recalled sensei had made him hold his breath in the beginning, to keep him from sabotaging himself when his skill was still nonexistent. "I . . . don't know." No one else had ever mentioned it, but again, the alchemists were regarded even by the regular enlisted as something of an odd assortment, and surely no one would think it odd that he did. If he did.

Jean just nodded as if that was the most reasonable answer in the world. "Hell of a firestorm you made there," he noted. "Wasn't sure I was gonna see you come out again."

Roy frowned, and brushed his cheek with the gloves. It was a little sore to the touch, but then again he was probably sunburned, so Gran likely wouldn't notice.

He had nearly lost it. He'd overextended again. Badly. It was hard to care that flame was a living thing, it was almost a convenience to him now, he used it so often with such little fine control. It didn't take that kind of fine control to burn a street full of mud huts. He used his flame alchemy almost daily, but he was less skilled with it now than he'd been when he'd certified.

"We should keep going, sergeant."

So they walked, silent when they were tired, talking when the going was easier. Havoc asked him about fire, and he asked about rifles, both to impress their friends with their newfound knowledge. They were friends themselves, really, Roy noted, seeing his ghost under electric light for the first time as they approached base camp's imposing, razor-sharp gate.

Getting in, as ragged as they were, was frighteningly easy. All Roy had to do was show them his watch, before Havoc could even do more than salute. They were ushered through immediately, and he headed straight for the officer's tent, almost to the flap before he realized, for the first time in two days, that he was alone.

He glanced back to see Havoc was looking down the long row toward the enlisted's tents, another half-mile hike through the camp. He'd shouldered his rifle a few miles back and was now actively holding his injured arm with the other, and he looked dead on his feet.

"Sir!"

Roy turned back to the tent, to a man who'd nearly run over him. He didn't recognize the young man, but his stripes were clean and sharp. "Lieutenant-"

"Medic!" The officer didn't let him get a word in edgewise, and within moments two starched white uniforms came out of the tent, one of them familiar.

"Clarence," he greeted the doctor, whose frown did a poor job hiding his relief.

"Roy!" The man dropped his black bag, grabbing the stethoscope around his neck. "You were supposed to be here almost two days ago-"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, holding up a perfectly white glove. "However, a sergeant in my return party could use some attention. Are the Rockbells available?"

The Rockbells could be trusted to spend some time on someone as insignificant as a sergeant, while Clarence and his staff were reserved for the higher-ranked officers. All the injured that survived the trip from the front lines were triaged here, and it wouldn't do to have a colonel waiting for treatment because a warrant officer was bleeding to death.

Clarence shook his head. "Your party actually took them to the front lines." Clarence's clear brown eyes were looking over his shoulder even as he said it, where Jean was apparently still standing, mustering the courage to keep walking. "That him?"

"Yes."

He glanced over the receiving area, but it was quite early in the morning, and outside of Havoc and the gate guard the area was deserted.

"He's all that's left?"

"Unfortunately."

"For you to be this roughed up, I believe it." Clarence gave him another appraising look before looking more critically over his shoulder again. "That arm's infected. It'll have to go."

"Keep the arm."

He wasn't really sure he had the authority, as only a major, to direct the medical branch, but Clarence didn't call him on it. "You know what infection's like here-"

"Keep the arm," he repeated quietly, and after a moment, the medic shrugged.

"I'll pass the request along, but it's his funeral. What cut him?"

"A priest's knife." This would certainly pique the doctor's attention. "Two days ago."

"What?!"

"You heard me."

Clarence's colleague was staring at him, clearly in disbelief. "But that's impossible, even if he survived he wouldn't be able to walk-"

"I treated him as well as I could, but he needs professional care," he interrupted smoothly. "I'm sure a survivor of piro venom would be a very fascinating patient indeed."

Clarence stared at him a second more, then shook his head slowly. "You're a right bastard, Flame. I'll try to work him in. Consider this repayment for that little job a month back."

"Poor repayment. Pad it with a few drinks and we'll call it even."

"So long as I get to pick the poison. Paul, get over there before he falls down." He and Roy shook hands on it, then Clarence edged around Mustang, and he found himself staring at a massive blue pillar of uniform the medic had previously hidden.

He jumped to attention so quickly it hurt, but his salute was absolutely crisp, and he imagined an appraising look from the darkly tanned general.

"Reporting as ordered, sir!"

- fin -

**Author's Notes**: Look! See?! Three chapters! Three! Now, of course, this is not the end of the drabbles, just the end of this _particular_ one. And it's obvious fanservice. ; ) But that's okay! Because it's gooey. These are drabbles, so they're not quite as complicated as PAA. If you're looking for another sequel in here, you're out of luck.

(And I shouldn't admit that I thought it might be neat to have the sequel I will not write, _will not write_, **will not write** having Ed trying to train himself out of his fear of torture by . . . well, by torturing himself, and Al ending up more in the limelight in a very Indiana Jones-like plot that would involve danger to . . . well, to Breda, actually, which fell right back into my desire to whump Havoc. I'm stopping there. ;) If anyone wants to play in this sandbox, by the way, please email me and I'd be happy to discuss it! The more the merrier! Patterson showed up in someone else's fic, after all, so the precedence is already there!

The next drabble to be posted is Havoc actually using his special ops training. That sounds really impressive, doesn't it? In honesty, it's the consequences of Havoc using his special ops training. ; ) Which we saw briefly when he and Breda infiltrated the enemy camp in PAA. And we'll see again in a drabble I have planned, and will absolutely be mentioned in PAA at least once more, because Franklin is positively terrified of him. Speaking of which, I guess I should get on with that . . .


	4. Special Ops part 1

**Perfect After All: Odds Without Ends**

**Special Ops**

Jaya Mitai

**Disclaimer**: Don't own FMA. Making no money. Don't sue.

This was a drabble written because undercover Havoc fics are hard to find, and he never seems to do much in them. So this was in response to that, a present for fellow author Silverfox2702.

- x -

Sharp.

The hairs of his nose tried to retreat back into his brain, and he opened his eyes. He couldn't help it. This smell was bad, bad like eggs in a mine. This smell meant you had to wake up. And he _was_ awake, he knew he must have been wandering in and out for some time, because the pain was still there, just as crushing as it had been. He tried to lift his head, just to get his nose out of the blood, but he might as well have been picking up a boulder. He really couldn't move.

He also couldn't quite get one of his eyes open. It was stinging like the dickens, and even with one good one he still couldn't figure out where the smell was coming from.

He couldn't even tell where he was.

The floor was old, grey and far too smoothly worn to be anything but a business. He imagined he'd be smelling the dust if he could smell anything other than metal and that sharp vapor that reminded him a little of camping with Pa, the time he fell and broke his ankle. They'd had to stay the night in the ravine, it'd been too late to pick their way out and dark, dark like this. It was night, which wasn't good.

He wasn't even sure he was in the same district. Last thing he remembered was late afternoon-

He closed his eyes again at the sound of footsteps, and lay peaceably on the floor as two-no, four sets of boots clomped up some kind of wooden stairway. A door was slammed open, wafting some air over him, and for a second the sharp smell was gone.

"Wakey wakey, _Riley_."

A sharp kick to his gut gave him his orientation on the floor, and while he felt himself gag he found the general desire to continue not moving remained. A few more blows rained down, but he didn't respond, and not because he couldn't. No point. He remembered _that_, at least. Only thing it could'a been.

Someone ratted him out.

"That all the fight you got?"

Someone started to haul him up by his hair, and his chest creaked in warning. He tried to catch the wrist holding him, just to give himself some other kind of support. He did _not_ want to sit up, he did _not_ want to move. He wanted to lay there.

But instead, he was shaken like a mangy dog and grabbed by his collar instead, which was more useful to manhandle him. It also was a little easier on his body, so he allowed it, cracking open his eyes to see how close Raoul really was.

Close. But even with all those dirty teeth bared, all he could smell was metal and oil.

. . . lantern oil?

"So you're an officer, are ya?"

Yep. Cover was definitely blown. It really was the only explanation as to why the entire group set upon him the moment he met up at the rendezvous point, but they must've just gotten the tip, because he was sure the stock they had was the real thing, sure he knew where all their hiding places were. Sure he had them, he just needed to get the word out-

Not like he had a phone, though. Not like they'd let him wander out to find one, either. And since he didn't recognize the building even upside-up, he was probably a long way from his expected location. So they weren't going to find him, either. Not for a little while, at least. Maybe the colonel'd had one of Hughes' men tailing him, but he hadn't seen a guy. This was all so damn sensitive, and if it had been anyone else, anyone smarter, Raoul wouldn't have taken them on. He'd wanted a dumb grunt with a gun, and that was who Riley was.

Only now they knew Riley was really Jean Havoc, somehow, and that grunt with a gun was probably on his own.

He hung in the man's meaty fist like a rag doll, and was vigorously shaken again. He hoped distantly that he'd gag again and puke on the guy, but only a weak burp rattled out of his bruised throat, and this was met with roars of laughter.

Not from Raoul, though. He fancied himself the upper crust. The fact Riley was a lieutenant would probably rub Raoul all kinds of the wrong way.

"You think you're funny, boy?"

Jean tried to pick up his head, finding it a little easier somehow, and circulation was returning to his upper body. The sharp smell was stronger, this high off the ground, and now he was sure of it. Lantern oil. A lot of it, or else it was on his clothes.

Oh.

His brow must have furrowed, because Raoul pulled him even closer. "You think you're funny?"

Havoc blinked, owlishly, and then struck, seeking out Raoul's unprotected throat with the second and middle finger of his right hand. It only took two pounds of pressure to crush a person's trachea, and even though he was too weak to actually puncture the skin, his arm still moved as fast as it would've reaching for his rifle. He found himself suddenly unsupported, and his legs sure as shootin' weren't going to take up the slack, so he fell heavily despite complaints from his chest and gut. He'd landed mostly in a sitting position, though, and he decided to remain upright despite the drawbacks. Raoul might have a gun, after all, and if he collapsed in front of him, at least it'd give him a little cover –

Yep. Raoul fell to his knees, both hands wrapped around his throat, and there was a rich walnut handle sticking out of his ridiculous suede jacket, just begging to be plucked up. Always happy to oblige, he did so, and only then did the other men seem to realize what was going on.

Too late for them. He squeezed off a round and the unexpected recoil almost slapped him in the face. A little better prepared, the second and third shots were better, but there was still the fourth man, and as luck would have it, to his blurry vision it looked like Offal, just around the frame of a door. Who really should've been the first one he'd shot, the guy was a real bad apple and he'd be happy to pick right up where Raoul had left off.

He'd also be smart enough to take the stock and go, not hung up in assumed arrogance like Raoul. If he didn't get word to the colonel, then three weeks' worth of work – and the money they'd given the smugglers – was for nothing.

Offal, as it turned out, wasn't too keen on the idea that he might not have hit Raoul quite hard enough to kill him, either. He was more than happy to shoot through his old boss to get to 'Riley,' and Jean kept returning fire, a little blindly, watching the kneeling man in front of him shudder as round after round struck his back.

And then maybe Raoul ran out of ribs, because one of those bullets went right through him, and then Jean was lying down again.

He heard the other man approach, but the walnut gun was heavy, and his stomach was so happy he was lying down again that it was jumping around in celebration. He felt the gun being torn out of his grasp, and Offal's face swam into view. He had blood all over him, one of his shots must've grazed him, but not close enough. The next thing he saw was the interior of the barrel of an Evans ten, and then the click of the hammer, striking the gunpowder packet and sending a piece of lead hurtling into his brain.

Well, that was how it usually worked. If there'd have been a bullet in the chamber.

Offal managed to look incredulous through the blood, and he hurled the weapon at him. It must've hit him in the face, seeing as it couldn't have gone anywhere else, but outside of a suddenly tingling cheek Jean didn't feel any new pain. A quick check revealed he still even had all his teeth.

"This was my idea, you know," Offal snarled, when he saw that Jean's eyes were still open. "Like it? Couldn't'a worked out better." He kicked the corpse of his boss, and Jean heard the body settle. "Seemed a fitting message to send to your colonel. Him bein' the Flame Alchemist. Get it?" Offal bent to pick up the gun he'd kicked out of his hands, and he checked the chamber before he cursed, putting a hand to his bleeding head.

"Fuck you, maggot," he spat, and then he was hurrying out of the room.

Huh. He must not've known that Raoul used an old six-shooter. Offal only had one bullet left, and at least six men to convince he was in charge. Jean would've given him a salute for good luck if he could've picked up his hand. Instead, he lay where he'd fallen, wondering where he'd gotten hit.

Must've. Something had knocked him down. Didn't hurt, though, and he knew better than to try to seek out that pain. It'd find him soon enough.

A distant, muted roar, like a furnace starting up, and light outside the door Offal had just left.

Havoc eyed the room sluggishly. Any message he could leave would be burned, unless he could tie it to something heavy and chuck it out a window . . . ? He supposed he could always try to get up, but the flames were already visible through the doorway, and he'd heard the men come up – and one go back down – the wooden staircase, so he knew the exit was at least a floor down, and now blocked. He also knew he wouldn't survive a fall out the window, even only on the second story, and there was no guarantee Offal wouldn't be waiting outside. Hell, that sadist would probably stick around to hear him scream. Even if he scrawled a message and tossed it outside with his own body, Offal'd just take the letter when he left.

And he was right. Mustang'd be _pissed_ if he died in a fire. What he didn't get was what Offal hoped to gain by knowingly pissing off the Flame. One way ticket to Hell.

Of course, he'd catch that hell too if he didn't manage to pass on his information before he bought the farm, so he needed to find a way to get that message out of this building, and quick, before he did something stupid like dying.

There were windows, his failing eyes told him, hiding behind thick, grimy drapes. Must've been a warehouse, the way that fire was spreading. Lantern oil burned hot and slow, and they hadn't actually really poured much into the room with him, just the stairs and the hall outside. Maybe to give him time to think about death, but it was time just the same. Curtains meant windows. Windows meant air and a way to get something out.

But again, if Offal was out there, he'd see anything he tossed out. Maybe if he tossed it out when he broke the window, though, Offal would think it was just junk to clear out the glass before he tried to jump himself, so if he wrote two messages, Offal'd find the one on his person but the other would still be safe.

That seemed a good idea, and Jean took a deep breath of the thickening air, bracing himself for the effort of moving. Still had his notebook, wonder of wonders, in his back pocket, and he knew there was plenty of ink to be had, it'd been dripping out of his nose before he'd gotten shot, and he could always use the stuff pouring out of Raoul. Jean pulled out the notebook, touching his upper lip with a boneless finger before he started scrawling.

It took a couple sheets, but he got them all down. The addresses were in shorthand, but it was Fuery's shorthand. Might as well've been an unbreakable code for all the sense Offal would make of it. Jean looked around, finding the Evans ten lying just next to his face, so he picked it up as he rolled onto his left side, and from there to his knees. A peculiar weakness started spreading through him, from some point high in his chest, but outside of feeling incredibly light-headed it didn't really hurt him. It would've been a slow, flat bullet, wouldn't have gone all the way through both Raoul and then him.

Hell, if not for the fire, he might've even survived it.

The weakness scared him, far more than the pain or the flames he could feel through the floor beneath his knees. He'd always been relatively strong, even as a kid. He'd always been able to press on when others couldn't. All he had to do was get his ass across that floor to the window and toss the gun. Even if he couldn't then write the other message and toss himself out after it, he _had_ to get the gun out there.

Jean laboriously settled back on his calves, concentrating on the two small pieces of paper. It was like rolling a cig; his fingers knew what to do, strength or no. Into the barrel of the gun the cylinders of paper went, and then he used his pinkie to push them further in. The gun would be found, the notes would be found, and Maes would make sure it got to the colonel. All he had to do was get it out the window.

He was tempted to just throw it and he done with it, but what if he missed? The gun might survive the fire, but the metal would be far too hot, and the paper would burn. He tried to breathe, but here on his knees the air was already smoky, and rather than stand he crawled. The shot was definitely in his chest, it was hard to suck down air and hard to push it back out and he was so close to the floor, the nice warm floor he could lay on and rest, just for a second.

But he wouldn't, and he knew it, like settling in for a 'quick' nap in the supply room. It wouldn't just be a few minutes. It would be forever.

That thought struck him so weirdly that a feeble burst of adrenaline shot through him, and he kept moving, to get away from the place on the floor he'd thought it. Forever. This was the last place he was ever going to be.

Eventually the curtains were in front of him, and he grabbed at them clumsily, pulling himself up even as he tried to rip them down. But they stayed where they were, and he pawed through them desperately, growing more afraid by the moment as his arms became heavier and heavier. He'd probably gotten them opened twice before he realized it, the windows were so grimy and it was so dark. But he felt the hard glass brush against his knuckles, and he brought up the gun, bracing it on the windowsill before slapping it against the window.

If his strike against Rauol had been weak, this was weaker. Again and again he beat the glass with the gun, and it was at least the fifth time before the thick glass gave. He didn't just break a pane, though; the whole window was a single piece of glass, the panes just wood slapped over it, and it fell around him. He lost his grip on the gun in his surprise, and he wasn't sure where it ended up. He scrabbled at the floor at his feet, trying to find it, just in case it had fallen inside with the glass. Every time he thought he found it he raised his hands to see glass sticking out of his fingers, and after an unknown amount of time had passed, he decided that it wasn't there.

The window was giving him air, but it was also closer to the door, and the fire had already crawled into the room with him. He was pretty sure it was cooking his shins, too, where he knelt, but he didn't really care. It was going to get him, either through the floor or by the door, and it was the same fire so it didn't matter. All that mattered was that it was bringing light with it, and he could see that the gun didn't seem to be near him.

Now all he had to do was decide if he wanted to break his legs before he burned to death, or just sit still and let it happen. His stomach was voting for the latter, and he was sure Offal would only think he broke the glass to breathe, so he relaxed, and only then did he notice he'd left the pad of paper where they'd dropped him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to crawl back there for it.

Havoc leaned his forehead against the windowsill, not wanting to lay down in a glass bed but getting more tempted by the second. He found, however, that he was somehow slumped just right that he could stay where he was with almost no effort, so he did, and his stomach wasn't especially happy about being upright but it was a heck of a lot happier to be still, so it let it be enough, and he just kept right on breathing. There wasn't much else to do but listen, and there was a lot to listen to, so he did.

It kinda reminded him of the colonel, actually.

The building was falling down, he could feel it shudder when a support below gave, and of course the fire was talking the entire time. He'd even heard the colonel answer, once, in Liore, when he'd first met him. It seemed like if he just stopped concentrating, he'd be able to make out the words, and Mustang had told him once that fires have a purpose that is not necessarily the one their maker intended. Some fires were happy at their work, crackling away in fireplaces because they knew they were well-fed. Wild fires were ferocious, they were free and expanded across the land to play in the wind. House fires were desperate, knowing their brief life was accidental and would shortly be over.

This was one of those. It was howling, like it knew he was there. He could hear it talking to him, maybe because he was drifting and not paying attention, he probably had that stare the colonel got sometimes when he listened, but he couldn't make out anything besides his name.

Well, wasn't that a darned shame. Even the fire knew he wasn't really Riley. And its voice was growing more desperate by the minute, it must've known that help was coming, that it would get to him but that would be the last thing it could consume before the firemen put it out to prevent it from burning down the warehouses nearby. He opened his eyes, turning his head slightly to see that it was well on its way to him, using the walls and ceiling as its vehicle more than the dusty floor. Of course, dirt wouldn't burn, but old sooty walls were another thing altogether.

It was also throwing some weird shadows, too. Shadows and oranges and bright reds.

"Lieutenant!"

Now that was a little weird. He opened his eyes again, unable to recall when he'd closed them. They were still there, the reds and yellows and oranges, and they were calling him by rank.

"Lieutenant Havoc!"

One of the curtains fell down, just beside him, and then started beating the fire out of itself. Good call, he wanted to say. The fire would have come straight down them to get to him. Nice of the curtains to do that. He was too tired to do it himself.

Then the curtain flung itself around him, which was fine too, if it made it a little harder to breathe, and then he was moving. That was definitely _not_ all right, and he tried to fling the curtain off. He got it off his face, since it wasn't a huge curtain and he was almost taller than it was, and saw that the fire was on top of them.

It was also under him, which was an interesting feat, as he seemed to be floating over it. Even more weirdly, it seemed to be _carrying_ him.

He blinked, trying to get moisture into his eyes, and the red, which was by far the dimmest light, looked right at him. "Please hold still, lieutenant. The whole place is about to come down!"

No kidding, he wanted to say, and then he realized who else used that desperate voice, and who else glowed red brightly, like fire.

Another flicker of adrenaline, but of course his strength was less by the second, it couldn't do much besides clear the cobwebs temporarily.

Shit. That kid was made of metal. That was why he'd wrapped him up in the curtain. Alphonse Elric would burn him if he touched him. Already was, to an extent; he could feel his skin starting to cook, like his shins had against the floor.

And blood, even dried blood, couldn't stand that heat for long. The seal would burn off just as sure as Jean's own blood would.

"Jump," he told the shadow, knowing now why it looked like fire, why it sounded so desperate. He was just a little boy, even if he was so big, and even though Alphonse Elric was sure to survive, it just might not occur to him.

The shadow understood him immediately. "It'll hurt." You, he didn't add.

Jean nodded. Wouldn't do to tell the kid it already hurt.

And then there was the sickening lurch of falling, and then a landing that seemed to take forever, jarring and rattling his very brain. They'd fallen through the floor, he decided, and were hitting each level as the building collapsed. But then he was flat, and the curtain was peeled away, and he opened his eyes and saw fire, only it was further away. The air was cold on his face, inviting like a creek in midsummer, and he realized Al must have rolled to lessen the impact on him, since there was grass stuck to his helmet-horn.

So he reached up with an arm as heavy as Armstrong's must have been, and picked the clod off, before anyone else would notice. His fingers were caked with blood, but touching the metal didn't seem to burn them. Alphonse was uncomfortably hot, but not too hot.

The seal would be okay, then.

"Al! Lieutenant!"

Someone else, someone who reminded him of fire as well was now beside him. Quite a bit shorter, though, and Havoc almost pointed it out. Had the colonel somehow found out . . . ? But why would he send them?

"What're . . . you two doing here?" It was hard to talk, but he didn't dare swallow. His throat would stick together and then he'd really freak the two of them out. He wasn't sure he could avoid it, at this point, but death wasn't something little kids should have to watch, even if was just a death like his.

Edward Elric had also reached out to touch his brother, but Alphonse shook his head with the usual metallic rattle. "It's fine. I didn't get too hot."

"I wasn't sure that transmutation was going to be enough," Ed muttered, apparently relieved, before looking down at him. Nimble little hands were trying to pull the curtain aside, and he couldn't stop them, but Edward had seen blood before, and he'd seen people shot before. It wouldn't be too much for him. In fact, the boy's face hardly changed, just got a little harder.

It was hard not to imagine him with black hair, raising hell in his mother's kitchen. Seeing as he was going to grow right up into the spitting image of Mustang if he wasn't careful, seemed like the colonel had to have been a little like Ed, then, when he was younger.

"We overheard Miles just outside the library," Edward told him, voice tight as the curtain glowed with blue light and became a mantle of snow around him. "He mentioned the name Raoul Genkiss, so we knew it was linked to the missing stock. Then he said they had some surprise they were taking care of by the river, and with Mustang tied up in meetings, we figured it was worth checking out. It's what State Alchemists do, you know. Help the people."

Havoc couldn't help it. He laughed. It was dry and probably scared them a little, but neither drew back, and at some point it turned into coughing, and then choking, but there was water at his lips, and he eventually got enough down to stop. He didn't know where it had come from, but the boys had said they were near the river, and both were alchemists, so he wasn't going to worry about it. Pressure on his chest told him the curtain-turned-dressing was being used to slow the bleeding, and he contemplated replacing the small, white-gloved hand with his own.

Nothing should stain those hands, least of all him.

When he got his breath back, he was surprised to find they were still outside, still in the glow of the fire, and he cleared his throat. "How do you two know about Raoul?"

Edward had the good grace to look slightly less proud of himself, and Al sighed. "Nii-san knew that the colonel was keeping something from him, so we broke into-"

"The door was open, Al!"

"- the office one night and found a letter that was left out on a desk."

Huh. Wasn't like the colonel to be that careless with the documents. Unless, of course, it had been on _his_ desk.

. . . and it wasn't like Hawkeye to be careless about locking up, either.

Jean's eyesight was too bad to pick out anyone else around them, almost too bad to focus on them at all, but he sucked in a breath. "It was just lying out?"

Edward nodded, looking cocky again. "Careless of the bastard colonel, wouldn't you say?" And then his face changed, and Jean was astonished. He knew the kid was quick, but he was thirteen. Wasn't healthy for someone his age to be so damn suspicious.

But it was healthy for someone like a soldier. Mustang wouldn't have left anything that explicit out. In fact, he wouldn't have even written it down. And Hawkeye wouldn't have let him leave it out. It was planted there. The question was, who was supposed to have found it?

"Did you take it?"

Ed was somehow already far past his train of thought. "No. We left it where it was. Do you mean-"

That someone else was instructed to go into the office and find it. And someone else had, because the colonel had never mentioned it. Which meant that Mustang was set up from within the military. Only reinforced, if Miles was involved. Someone higher up than the colonel, though . . . that was a surprise. The stock wasn't that important, even though it was their best armor-piercing bullets. In fact, the whole thing had been a little off from the start, which was why the colonel had asked him to go in as a spy rather than keeping an eye from afar.

It wasn't the op they were trying to mess up. It was the colonel. Or his reputation, at least. A blown op and a dead officer would be a black mark on his record, prevent promotion.

Of course, the op was blown, and he was just about dead, so there wasn't much that could be done about it now. Only thing would be to keep the Elrics safe, if someone had come to make sure everything went according to plan.

"Did you tell Hawkeye?" Even if the colonel had been sucked into meetings – and he hadn't had any scheduled, it was all adding up – Hawkeye wouldn't have been.

Ed thinned his lips, and Alphonse sighed. "We sent her a note. Nii-san, someone's coming."

He reached up and grabbed Ed's arm, surprising himself. The water and first aid had helped, but not enough. "The gun," he said clearly. "I threw it out the window-"

"We saw. That's how Al knew where to go."

"There's a note inside. It has to get to the colonel."

Ed threw him a startled look, even as Alphonse got to his feet. "Nii-san-"

"I see 'em, Al." But he hadn't taken his eyes off him, and Havoc shook his arm a little.

"Take it and get out of here."

Ed still looked shocked, but then the cocky grin was back. "Be right back."

Then the boy had pried out of his grasp, forcing his hand to lay on the wad of cotton, and Alphonse was already running, but in the wrong direction, and he knew dam well he couldn't have chucked the gun _that_ far-

The warehouse finally collapsed, with a startlingly large fireball, and he clearly heard the fire roaring away, crackling and splitting what was left of the wood, whooping in the knowledge it had destroyed, and even though it would burn itself out all the faster, it had what it wanted.

And he closed his eyes, because he didn't want to see the colonel's face, not even with his dead eyes. It would be angry and disappointed, and he was just too tired.

He relaxed, finally feeling the bulletwound and rather wishing he could have died before it had happened. But it was pretty muted, all things told. His burnt skin was quite suddenly cold, and he noticed the roar was gone. Fire must've burned out. It was still dark behind his eyelids, so he listened to the silence, punctuated at times with the sounds of people moving around. None of them spoke to him, or touched him, so he assumed he was good and dead. It was a little disconcerting to still be able to hear, and he wondered if all those gentle sounds he thought were cloth were really feathers.

Then again, he didn't expect that he'd hurt this bad if he was in Heaven. Too cold to be Hell, though. Maybe purgatory? He supposed it _was_ awfully sinful of him to assume he'd be going to Heaven. He hadn't even been able to get those two kids out of the thick of it. Didn't know if they'd made it or not. Didn't even know who had come after them.

Wouldn't, either, even if he _was_ in Heaven, unless he opened his eyes.

So he did.

And there was the colonel's face.

Only it wasn't like he'd thought it would be. Mustang didn't look angry, or disappointed, or anything but . . . tired. Of course. He'd probably spent the night trying to clean up the mess, and he would have done that first, done it before he'd have time to deal with his own people. And it must've been a hell of a mess, because unless he was mistaken, the dark shadows under the man's eyebrows actually hid closed eyes, instead of open ones.

The colonel was asleep.

Havoc blinked, shivering slightly, and though he still couldn't see well, he was pretty sure he'd made it out right. There was a ceiling that wasn't the sky, and distant walking noises, and that fabric rustling sound that he was starting to realize was the colonel's sleeves rubbing on the front of his coat as he breathed, arms crossed on his chest.

Funny, that he'd have fallen asleep in the morgue. Ridiculous, even. Havoc blinked again, taking a slightly deeper breath, and then he felt the same pain he'd felt lying on the floor in the burning building.

Huh. Now that was something.

Jean Havoc didn't make a sound, he was far too tired for pointless whimpering, but even that soft sigh seemed to have been enough, because the colonel was suddenly looking at him, and he was looking back, and still, there was no anger.

Then again, if he hadn't died, there wasn't much to be angry at him about. Wasn't like he'd blown his _own_ cover. Still felt cold enough to be a morgue, though. There was a blanket on him, he saw, and bandaging, but taking a better look would require him to move, and his stomach was _still_ insisting that was a horrible idea.

Mustang studied him for a moment, then spoke. "Good evening."

Yeah. It might just be.

"Sir," he replied, his voice rasping. The colonel stood suddenly, striding across the room and giving him enough time to close his eyes before he turned on the lights. They were obnoxiously bright, but when Mustang returned he had water, and Havoc figured that was worth a headache. Of course, he had to move to accept the water, which was unpleasant, and he held it gingerly in hands that were wrapped in thick bandages. He was still shivering as he drank, and then there was some soft increase in weight on his sore, burned legs, and he lowered the cup to find a much thicker blanket had been draped across him.

"Report."

So he did, never asking the question that was on his mind, because Mustang would ask for a verbal report even if the Elrics were fine, and had given him the gun, and he'd had Fuery translate the addresses into normal post office addresses. It was a pretty short report, all things considered, but he did add his suspicions about Offal and the best places to find him. "Assuming it's still Thursday night, sir," he added as an afterthought.

The colonel had absorbed everything without speaking, arms still crossed. "It is, lieutenant."

Mustang wouldn't have let him report if it wasn't a secure room, so he swallowed. "How are the Elrics, sir?"

Roy looked a little more tired, all of a sudden. "Trying to put me in my grave ten years early," he replied dryly, and Jean smiled as much as his swollen face would allow.

"After tonight, I think I get why you feel that way sometimes."

Now it was the colonel's turn to smile. "Disobeyed you too, did they?"

"Always. Of course, the chief does outrank me."

"Not that it would matter if he didn't," Mustang murmured, smoothly ignoring the implied request for a promotion, and Havoc allowed himself to relax a little. He was slightly more awake, but not much. Enough to know he was in a hospital. Enough to know he'd have been dead if not for those two boys.

"Thank you for the report, lieutenant. Try to get some rest."

Havoc had, of course, left out the part about Offal telling him why he'd chosen to burn him to death, but he didn't miss the sudden change in the colonel as he stood. And it wasn't just about Offal. If the Elrics were fine, they'd already told Roy what they knew, and he'd have already figured out why it had all happened the way it had happened. He knew, now, that someone higher ranking was after him. And had done a fairly untraceable job of it. Fingerprints would be long gone, and every officer could get access to another officer's things just by borrowing the custodian's keys.

"Who went after them?" Had Ed and Al actually taken on military officers? Or had it been Offal?

Mustang paused, then reached out to flick off the light. "I'll take care of it," he replied softly. "Goodnight, Havoc."

"Goodnight, sir."

- . -

**Author's Notes**: So, he didn't do a whole lot in this either, huh. But it shows that while he's not the brightest bulb in the shed, he's not an idiot either. There are many people out there with almost no formal college education who have more wisdom in (un)common sense than I will ever have, and I think of Havoc as one of those people.

The next 'chapter' as it were happened because after I wrote this as a present, I thought . . . you know . . . I wonder, since Ed and Al were there . . . what would have happened to Offal . . . hmm . . . I wonder what he would have done to the Elrics . . . or they would have done to him . . .


	5. Special Ops part 2

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

He hit the ground hard, rolling the last few yards behind a wooden crate that was almost worthless to him. In its current configuration, anyway. He brought his hands together sharply, fortifying the wood with minerals in the ground below. Heavy metals, too – the warehouse district was always a good place to find unexpected ingredients.

Or unexpected gunfire, Edward Elric thought bitterly, sucking in a deep breath.

"Stop shooting, you moron!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, as soon as the crackle of alchemical energy dissipated. "I'm a State Alchemist!"

A single shot was the reply, quite a bit louder than the rapid fire of the previous, and Edward frowned, swiping in irritation as a fly blundered almost into his face. His body registered the truth far before his mind caught up, and he gasped at the realization and the change in his blood chemistry it brought.

Shit. Shit! He didn't even know where it had come from.

"What the hell is this?!" he roared again, ducking as far into his cover as he could, looking around wildly. He and Al had been searching those windows for a good ten minutes before they noticed the fire and the window breaking, so he wasn't in completely unknown territory, but it was close. Lots of dirty windows, lots of different roofs.

Nothing to give him a clue. And who the hell was shooting at him? Had it been a trick of his eyes, then, the blue? Or was it just a disguise?

No. That was bullshit. Sergeant Miles was military fair and square. He _had_ seen a uniform. They weren't supposed to have overheard Miles, and they weren't supposed to have been there to help the lieutenant, but someone was actually going to _kill_ them over it?

Another sharp rifle retort, and the automail jolted him to his core. His right shoulder yanked him hard into the wall, and the first officer, the one who had led him into the ambush (and he was ashamed to admit he'd walked right into it) was clearly in his line of sight. Slightly stunned by the force of the bullet, Edward just stared at the man, and the uniform sighted him, then took no more notice of him, taking off around the corner.

They didn't know who he was . . .? Or they didn't know the Fullmetal Alchemist had automail? Couldn't the guy see he was still alive?

Edward stayed perfectly still, realizing that he was partially concealed in the shadow of his transmuted cover, and he watched. Out of the corner of his eye he caught motion – someone had been in the window on the first level of the building just across from him. He'd practically had his back to the shooter, he was damn lucky they hadn't taken his head off-

The second he knew where the guy was, he tentatively flexed the automail. It was fine. Would take more than a bullet to wreck Winry's work and he knew it, he'd taken bullets with it before.

Never like that one, though.

Maybe that was the son of a bitch who'd shot Havoc.

Edward regained his feet stealthily, taking stock again before sprinting across the alley between the two buildings. The sniper was moving quickly, he'd be about parallel with the guy, so he clapped his hands together briefly and touched the wall. He'd give away his position, but then again-

The bricks responded beautifully, and he watched with satisfaction as half the building abruptly swallowed its windows, forming itself into a perfect cube. The floors also retreated into the walls, and he heard a startled yell followed by a series of crashes. When the glow died, a perfect prison with no doors and no windows stood in front of him.

He'd have liked to have put his likeness on all the walls, but it was dark on the side away from the fire, so there wasn't much point. Besides, he was a little worried that he hadn't seen Al in a while-

"No, don't-"

The familiar rattle of automatic fire, continuing for a few moments before a sudden cry of pain.

"-shoot," Al finished, a little sadly. Ed came around the corner in time to see the man stumble, gun still in his hand, and he watched his little brother step forward calmly, crushing the barrel effortlessly. The man made to pull a knife out of his belt, and Al looked at him pityingly.

Ed simply walked up and punched him in the back of the head. Shooting at him was one thing. Shooting at his little brother was something _entirely_ different.

Al gave him a reproachful look. "Nii-san, you hit him too hard-"

"He was trying to kill us!"

"That doesn't mean we should kill him," Al insisted firmly. "Your automail is too strong."

Ed shook it out in irritation. "Good thing, too," he snapped. "If it wasn't, I'd be dead."

Al started, only then noticing the tear in his coat, and Ed scowled. "Anyway. I only counted two. You?"

His brother continued staring at him a moment, then let it go and scanned the area. "Me too. Do you think that's all?"

Of course, they could always ask the officer at their feet, except he was unconscious. His brother graciously did not point this out, but Ed continued to scowl, nudging the unresisting body over with his foot. A major, so the same rank as him, and there was no doubt he was really an office-

Tires skidded through the unpaved dirt, on the other side of the building, and he tensed, dropping into a crouch. Across from him, Al had done the same, and they heard feet hitting the ground in a run. Three at least, and the car was still rolling-

Damn. What the hell had they really gotten themselves into? For the second time that night, Ed wondered if maybe Colonel Bastard had been keeping him clear of whatever this was for some reason other than to be an arrogant, superior asshole.

And thoughts of the colonel brought him back to the problem at hand. Which was the fact that he'd now just attacked two military officers. Who had been shooting at him, granted, but depending on how high this thing went, it would be his word against theirs. A glance told him Al wasn't even dented, so it wasn't like they had proof –

Ed pressed his back against the wall, listening hard to the footsteps that had now slowed as they approached the edge. Al was already hurrying around the other side to get the driver of the car. Anyone could see the warehouse he was leaning against had been altered, so they'd be expecting at least one alchemist. He thought about pre-emptive ground spikes, but decided it would be better to catch one of these guys and ask them nicely.

Or have Al do it. His eyes were glowing all the more brightly in the night, and he knew it would scare the hell out of anyone that didn't know him.

The body came around the corner, seeing him almost instantly, but Ed had already pounced, and despite the soldier's bulk he still managed to knock him down.

Barely. The gun he held hadn't gone off, and was safe in the automail, but the soldier's other hand had grabbed his face, and Ed found it was very hard to continue using his admittedly lesser weight to keep the man pinned. The automail was helping, though, and the soldier yelled before Ed could land a punch.

"Falman!"

Ed froze. Falman?

And then there was the click of a safety being disengaged, but Edward had already leaned away, surprised to see the bulk beneath him was none other than Heymans Breda.

"Edward . . .?"

He leaned away further, turning his head cautiously to find the silver-haired man at his left, gun suddenly pointing at the sky. They all regarded each other for another moment before Ed stepped lightly off the major, offering him a hand.

Hawkeye had gotten the note, then. "Major, do you have a radio?" He couldn't keep the urgency out of his voice, and Breda's surprise dissolved into something a little more wary.

There was a startled exclamation from the other side of the warehouse, but no gunshot, and Ed assumed Al had just found another one of Mustang's men. Good. They could sort this shit out.

"What are you doing here? Are you all right?" Falman, ever attentive to details, was already fingering the hole in his coat, and Ed pulled away.

"I'm fine, but the lieutenant-"

They moved in the direction he indicated without another word, but now there was a car between them and the burning warehouse, and Ed couldn't see Havoc at all. The warehouse had collapsed at some point, burning more brightly but much lower, and the shadows were very long. The other officers jogged ahead, keeping an eye on their surroundings, and Ed waited for Al to catch up.

If they had a car, it wouldn't matter if anyone had a radio or not. They could get Havoc to a hospital.

"Oh, no, nii-san-"

Al sounded extremely troubled, and he started running towards the burning warehouse without a backwards glance.

- . -

"Jean." She smoothed his matted hair back, not putting any more strength behind her touch than she had her voice. If he could hear her, he would respond, no matter how softly she spoke. Her fingers left streaks through the soot clinging to his skin, made troughs through his usually ruffled hair, but made no difference to his eyes.

They remained closed, and she could see no movement beneath them.

"Jean."

She continued to stroke his face and his hair, willing him to stir, but he didn't. Couldn't. Breda was working on his chest, which was quite obviously his most serious injury, and as he pulled the bloodied cotton aside, he swore.

"Hawkeye."

She turned, eyeing the wound critically. The firelight from the collapsed warehouse was low but bright, and it threw as many shadows as it swallowed. But surely that couldn't be a trick of the light. She'd have thought it was the exit wound if his clothes or the torn skin around the hole had backed it up. But they didn't. The hole was more oval than round, and it was huge. Far larger than any standard-issue bullet would have created. She could have stuck her thumb into his chest without any resistance at all.

Riza Hawkeye silently echoed Breda's curse, exchanging a look with him. "Possibly an anti-personnel round-"

He shook his head. "There's no exit wound." It was quiet, and Heymans looked over his comrade again. "Where the hell is it? His spine?"

She would have figured a round of that caliber would have blown him in half whether or not it hit his spine, unless distance played a role . . .? His breathing was slow, and obviously labored, but had been regular in the few minutes they'd been treating him. Her other hand slipped down his arm to his wrist, finding it sticky with blood but offering up a steady pulse.

The bullet had hit him just slightly left of center, and a round that size couldn't have been stopped by a rib, couldn't have missed major blood vessels. Couldn't have missed his lung.

Could explain why he wasn't able to regain consciousness. But if he didn't-

She squeezed his wrist gently, then flinched as something bit sharply into her fingertip. Turning over his wrist, she saw the reason; a piece of glass. More than one. They were in his fingers, his palm, even the back of his hand.

Hawkeye began to methodically remove them, willing the oozing blood to stop as she did so. Breda passed her some gauze, over Havoc's chest, and when she accepted it she realized there was a small shadow between her and the fire. She also caught the scent of burning cotton.

"I'm sorry," Edward said, before she could even address him. "We can't repair them with alchemy unless we know what they said. The ink was different than the paper, so I could restore some of it, but . . ."

He was standing with his shoulders slumped, offering what looked like two badly singed pieces of paper, and Hawkeye laid Havoc's left wrist down gently, wiping her hands on her pants before accepting them.

The edges were badly burned, and the paper itself brittle and browned, the burns slowly fading toward the middle of the paper. And there were words, written sloppily, but of course they wouldn't have made sense to Edward, he hadn't been with them long enough to know this code.

"Fuery," she called, raising her voice for the first time, and then she focused on Edward again, waiting until she had his eyes. "Where did you find these, Edward?"

He held up his automail hand, and with his back to the fire, it took her a second to realize he was holding a gun. His white glove was smoking, and burned so badly nearest the gun that one of the glove's fingertips slipped off the automail altogether to flutter to the gravel.

"He put the notes in it." Edward's voice was sounding more forlorn by the second. "He threw it out the window, which was how me'n'Al found him, but when the warehouse collapsed, it was still too close." The automail curled around the gun again, and the barrel crumpled slightly. "I'm sorry, he told us to get these to Mustang, but we saw them coming-"

"You've done well," she assured him, turning at the sound of rushing footsteps and offering the papers to Kain Fuery. He accepted hesitantly, clearly surprised to see Edward, and shoved his glasses closer to his eyes. After a moment, a look of horror crossed his already worried face.

"I-it's written in blood-"

"Just decipher them, sergeant."

They were addresses, that much she could tell. Probably incomplete, with the edges so badly burned, but something was better than nothing.

Havoc must have realized at some point that he wouldn't be able to tell them in person. He couldn't have known the boys would show up, though, they must have surprised him as much as they had them. So he'd spoken to them . . . but before or after he'd been shot? Riza eyed the fully collapsed warehouse, but all the clues there were burned. She hated to do it, but waiting for Mustang was not an option this time. Information was more important.

She turned back to Havoc's hand, finishing her removal of the pieces of glass. Breda was still putting pressure on the chest wound, but he'd seen what she was doing, and once she'd finished with his left hand and wrapped it, he was already at work on the other.

She folded Havoc's bandaged hand onto his stomach, then stood briskly, turning to face the Elrics. Alphonse stood only a few steps behind his brother, hands clasped in front of him in such an obvious gesture of worry and guilt that he didn't need a face like his brother's to move her. She couldn't see any of Ed's; she was so much taller, and his eyes were tilted towards the street, bangs hiding everything but the point of his chin.

"Tell me what happened. From the beginning," she added, as gently as she could. "What were you doing here?"

Ed didn't say anything, and though she never took her eyes off him eventually Al took pity on his older brother. "We . . . happened on a document laying on the colonel's desk one night. It mentioned that Lieutenant Havoc was undercover infiltrating a group run by Raoul Genkiss to get back some stolen munitions. Well, earlier today, when we were leaving the library, we decided to cut across the officer's park there. We passed Lieutenant Colonel Miles speaking with another officer, and we heard the name Genkiss mentioned."

Ed moved, raising his chin just slightly, and that was all it took to cut his brother off. "We tried to eavesdrop, but Miles got suspicious, so all we really heard was that Raoul had gotten a surprise today and he was going to take care of it by the river. Sergeant Sheska said that the colonel was in meetings all day and couldn't be disturbed, so we sent you the note and then we came here to see what we could do."

So they'd overheard something else, too, if Edward had chosen to interrupt his brother there. But it could wait. "What document was this? And what night?"

Ed stiffened slightly. "It was orders, on the colonel's desk. Three nights ago, right, Al?"

Al nodded. "Uh-huh."

Orders?

"Havoc thought it was odd, too," Ed added, in a very subdued voice.

"When did you discuss this document with Havoc?"

"Just now." He shifted, as if uncomfortable under her gaze, and he still wouldn't meet her eyes. "Right after Al got him out of the building. We came down here and saw the smoke, then one of the widows broke out so we knew someone was up there. Al went to get 'em, and I caught the guy running out and put him over there." He jerked his chin over to the right, and Hawkeye followed his gaze to the man Falman was now guarding. Even at this distance she recognized him from Havoc's surveillance photos. It was Raoul's second in command, though his name escaped her for the moment. He appeared to be wrapped in the same metal that one used to make bilge barrels hold their shape.

"You might want to collect the other two," Ed added, with something slightly closer to his usual tone. "There's one around the corner, and one inside the building."

"Falman," she called, and he came over immediately. "There are two others. Edward, can you show him?"

Ed nodded, and they followed the teen as he reluctantly moved away from the lieutenant and towards a building behind them. It had obviously been transmuted; she'd seen that as soon as they'd driven up, but of course she hadn't been expecting Edward. Or Alphonse. Mustang had given strict orders that they not be involved, the whole thing had been bad from the start and he'd known it, but now-

They came around the corner, and she drew her pistol immediately. But the lump didn't do more than groan, and Falman eyed it before stopping suddenly.

"It's-"

"Take him into custody." It was someone in a military uniform, but knowing Raoul, it could have been a disguise his smuggling ring used to get goods out of Central. If it actually turned out to be a real officer, then they might have a problem on their hands. "Where's the other?"

In answer, Edward walked toward the solid brick wall, and clapped his hands sharply. Then he put them to the brick. There was a massive crackle of blue light across the building, though nothing seemed to happen until she heard someone yelling in alarm and a series of bangs, groans, and crashes. Then it sounded like something hit the wall just on the other side of Edward's hands, and the bricks pulled away from themselves like a curtain on a stage, revealing a dusty and battered man who tumbled into the open space, followed by a variety of broken furniture pieces and papers.

This man, too, had a military uniform, and she recognized the specialty indicated on his chest instantly. He was still conscious, and she put the muzzle of her gun to his head before he could even untangle himself.

"Name and rank," she growled, and he froze. Wavy brown hair, please don't let it b-

" . . . Hawkeye," he said slowly. "Calm down. I can explain-"

"You address superior officers with a sir, major."

He looked up when he deemed it safe, and she kept the gun exactly where it was, about a millimeter from his open, unflinching eye. "I wouldn't call you superior. Sir."

Falman knew his job well; after putting handcuffs on the still groggy soldier on the ground, he searched her opponent and took two pistols off him. Once he was safely in handcuffs, she holstered her weapon, and Alan Hayes smirked at her.

"Enjoy the view. I won't be in these very long."

Edward made a sound a little like a growl, and Alan glanced at him, then did a double-take. Edward glared at him, curling the exposed automail into a fist, and comprehension dawned on the face of one of her most skilled colleagues.

"So it covers your shoulder and back too, huh." He cocked his head to the side, meeting the famous Elric glare head-on. "I wanted to let you have an open casket. Won't make the same mistake again."

"You won't get a chance," he snarled in return. The change from subdued to furious was fast, and for having escaped a sniper of Hayes' caliber, and even managing to trap him in a building where he could do no more harm, she would have expected Edward to be a little more proud of himself. He clearly had no idea what had nearly happened to him.

But she did. "Put them with the other." Falman did so, and she and Edward followed behind. His gaze kept moving to the car, and to the officer laying in what she'd almost mistaken for a shroud when her headlights had picked him out of the gravel. She knew better; she never took her eyes off Hayes, and he seemed to enjoy it. Once they were safely seated and under Vato's watchful eye, she stepped off to the side, indicating Edward should follow her.

"What happened after you found the lieutenant?"

Ed stuffed his hands into his pockets, and there was a flash of metal at his shoulder. She carefully didn't look, waiting a few seconds before glancing at him again and confirming – Alan had gotten Ed fair and square.

Al cleared his non-existent throat. "Well, I had to transmute the staircase just to get it strong enough for me, but the landing outside was about to go, so Lieutenant Havoc told me to jump." He seemed ashamed, which baffled her. "I rolled when we landed so it wouldn't hurt him as much."

Ah. She graced the younger Elric with a gentle smile. "I'm sure he appreciated it," she reassured him. "So he was still conscious when you found him?"

Alphonse Elric nodded. "He was by the window so he could breathe, and he looked at me when I came in."

"Was anyone with him?"

Alphonse hesitated. "Bodies," he finally admitted in a small voice. Edward started, and turned fully to look at his brother. That was obviously news to him.

"How many?"

Ed's face snapped back to hers; very clearly, she had stepped over some line, but she ignored him, and focused on his younger brother. "I'm sorry, Alphonse, but it's very important."

Ed took a step towards her, but Alphonse put a hand on his brother's shoulders. "No, it's okay," he said, and then addressed her again. "I think three. It was hard to tell, there was a lot of smoke and fire."

So three, and Raoul's second in command, but no indication if Raoul himself had been among them. "After you got Havoc out, then you told him about the document?"

Edward was decidedly cooler when he responded. "Yes."

Hawkeye almost smiled. She should have expected nothing less; he hated it when the colonel did this to him, he just apparently hadn't counted on it from her. "Did he tell you anything else?"

"He told us where the notes were."

"Then what happened?"

Edward crossed his arms, as if only now remembering his normal behavior. "Then two military officers tried to kill us," he replied. "Care to tell me why, lieutenant?"

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. "No," she responded, perfectly frankly. "There was a reason you were not assigned to this case, Edward-"

"Well, it's a little late for that, isn't it," he interrupted hotly. "We're here, and if Havoc-" Then he broke off, and licked his lips nervously. "We're involved now."

He was, unfortunately, more right than he knew. "If you two would –"

Flashing lights in the distance caught her eye, and she watched them a moment to make sure they were the right color. They were.

Al had seen them as well. Which only made sense; he was even taller than she was. "Is that the ambulance?"

"About time," his brother growled, and he turned immediately back for the lieutenant.

Hawkeye didn't budge, however, until the ambulance was close enough for her to see the lines painted on the sides, and to see the car tailing it. The driver spotted her, and she gestured to the quickest path to Havoc. The car, as she'd expected, was being driven by one of Hughes' men, Denny Brosh, and there were two heads visible in the back seat.

Now that she knew what she did, involving Hughes at this juncture could turn out to have been a massive mistake.

Even walking, she still managed to beat them back to Havoc, and Breda was as reluctant as Edward had been to leave the lieutenant's side. He was still alive, which was no small surprise, and even more oddly, while the major was still holding the padding he'd used to try to stop the flow of blood, she could see that it wasn't even fully soaked through.

He caught her gaze. "It's not bleeding like it shoulda been. I guess maybe he bled out when it happened?"

"Alphonse said he was sitting upright when he found him. He took the bullet before that."

Breda's eyebrows shot up. "Well, then where the hell did the blood go?" Then he frowned. "Suppose it's a puncture wound . . .?"

She shook her head. No, there was no doubt it was a bulletwound. But how could it be that huge and have damaged so little? "I'm not going to look too closely if it saves his life."

The lieutenant colonel spoke briefly with the paramedics, while Mustang just stared at Havoc, now bound on the gurney in the center of the vehicle. He made no move to get in; he couldn't afford to and he knew it. He was listening to Maes' conversation, but apparently had nothing else to add or ask, and they all gathered near the ambulance as it started off.

No one followed it. Even one down, Mustang's unit was awaiting orders.

They didn't have to wait long.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: So the boys got into a bit of trouble pretty early on, in my brain . . . got to save Havoc, see how Mustang's team operates, captured some bad guys but didn't really know enough to get involved any further. But then I was wondering, hmm, I wonder what _Mustang_ would do to these people, who shot Havoc, shot at Fullmetal, had obviously set him up . . . hmm . . . and so the next part (this one is also a three-parter, I think) will deal with Mustang's interrogation techniques. ) Pretty much moar free pressie for Silverfox.


	6. Special Ops part 3

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

"You should go over there."

Edward kept his hands in his pockets, never taking his eyes off the group. They were talking about whatever this was, and much as he knew it would be in his best interest to find out how deep and high it was now piled around them, he couldn't quite bring himself to walk over. Besides, if Colonel Bastard wanted him, he'd have made a short joke by now. Bits and pieces of their conversation were floating on the hot air between the roaring of the flames, but they weren't saying anything he and Al didn't already know.

Havoc had been shot. He'd left them addresses of some kind, written in his own blood. Edward had tried to restore them. No one knew if Raoul Genkiss was among the dead. He felt his back tense as the officers revealed Al's startling information, and he clenched his teeth to prevent himself from grinding them.

He hadn't wanted Al to see that. Even if the military was the only way to a Stone, this life . . . his little brother didn't belong here any more than he belonged in that iron body. And it had been his damn curiosity that had dragged Al into Mustang's office three days ago, so this was his fault-

Then again, surely the lieutenant would have burned to death if not for Al's actions. Even if he died of the gunshot, at least it would be at a hospital, or on the way. Ed wasn't really sure death was ever good, but the less pain the better.

Edward found himself glaring at the fat, surly man he'd caught trying to run from the scene. He was sure that was the guy that had started the fire, though maybe he'd thought Havoc was already dead and had just been trying to burn the evidence. He still wasn't sure if the sniper that had tried to kill him had or hadn't been the one to shoot Havoc, but he was fairly sure they were working together. And if that was the case, and Mustang wasn't in that loop, then it was fully possible that Mustang himself was now in trouble.

And Edward had enough on his plate to worry about, and wasn't about to add that hypocritical heretic to the list. He should have listened to Al.

Ed closed his eyes at the familiar thought. When would he learn?

And what had Al just told him to do?

"You're right," he agreed, startling his brother slightly since it had taken him so long to respond. He'd have to face this mistake sooner than later, and he finally looked up at the familiar helmet, slightly dark from the soot of the smoke. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

He was about halfway to Mustang's unit before he was noticed, and he was unsurprised when Hughes broke off from the main group and intercepted him. They were speaking more quietly now, and one at a time. Reporting, probably, and when Maes gave him that bright, completely unsubtle smile he held up a hand.

"I don't really want to see a pho-"

"Fancy meeting you here!" His hand raised in protest was captured and pumped in an exuberant manner, and Maes put a fatherly arm around his shoulder, spinning him 180 degrees to face Al again. The second they were turned, the smile and tone dropped as if they had never been, though his grip didn't slacken in the slightest. "Edward, can I ask you to take off your coat?"

Edward blinked, still being propelled toward the car. "Wh-why?"

"I need to see your automail. Was it damaged?"

They had completely circled around the car, and Hughes released him with a gentle squeeze. Now there was no chance of overhearing anything – in fact, he couldn't even see them, the car was hiding them from him completely.

"It's fine." He moved it to demonstrate, but Hughes' eyes were intent behind his glasses, and the strand of hair that seemed to perpetually fall over his forehead seemed a little sharper than usual.

"I'm sorry to drag you away, but we didn't want them to see," and he indicated the group by thumbing over his shoulder. "You were shot, weren't you?"

Trust Falman to have mentioned it. "It's fine," he repeated, but Maes was already pulling his collar aside, and he batted him away. "What's going on?"

Hughes was not put off, and Edward sighed and allowed the man to peel back his coat. His tank top had also not been spared by the bullet, and he was about to transmute it together again when Hughes made the slightest unhappy noise. His back was to the fire, so Ed craned his head around and dropped his shoulder to try to lessen the shadows.

And there, large as life, right next to the port, was a dent. His automail was _dented._

Edward couldn't hide his groan, and Hughes looked alarmed. "Does it hurt?"

"It's gonna." And because he was here, and he was a witness, Mustang was going to make him go in front of some panel and tell them what happened, and it was going to be _days_ before he could get back to Resembool for repairs. Of course, it could just be a surface dent, in which case he could repair it, but if it had bent anything internal, and Winry found the damage later-

The lieutenant colonel didn't follow, but Ed just scowled. "Let me guess. I have to go testify in military court or something."

Hughes gave him a tight smile. "I don't think that will be necessary . . . hmm, how quickly do you think it could be repaired?"

Edward blinked up at him, completely nonplussed. "Uh . . . as soon as I get back to Resembool. My mechanic is there-"

Hughes kept the same intent look. "What about just . . . smoothing out the damages?"

. . . what? "Why?" Why would they ask him to hide this? Was Mustang trying to cover up his being there? And if he was, was it for the colonel's benefit, or theirs? Was he actually trying to _prevent_ them from getting in trouble?

Hughes crouched, so that they were more or less eye level, and his smile was natural and more than a little self-deprecating. "Hawkeye said you broke into Mustang's office, and that was how you knew something was happening here. That's a very serious thing, Edward."

"I didn't break anything! The door was open!"

Hughes put a silencing hand on his shoulder. "That's not the point," he said gently. "That document was not meant for you. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm sure Lieutenant Havoc appreciates your being here more than you'll ever know. You and Al saved his life tonight. But . . ." He hesitated. "The colonel didn't leave that document out, Ed. Someone else did, and I don't think they left it there for you."

But . . . that would mean –

Edward knew his confusion was showing, but he didn't bother to hide it. "We didn't see anyone else there-"

Hughes shook his head. "No, no, I know you'd tell us if you had." He seemed to think about his next words carefully. "Ed, it's very important that no one know that anything happened here tonight. Do you understand?"

Surely, though, that was impossible. The warehouse had burnt to the ground. Havoc had been taken away in an ambulance. There would be a record, and surely someone in Investigations would realize that-

Which meant they did, and they were going to get rid of it.

Ed clapped his hands together, bringing up his human one to touch the automail, and the dent swelled back out into a smooth plate of armor, as though nothing had ever happened. He could feel that there were some bent wires and something else he was going to bet was a bearing, but he still had full range of motion, so it could wait a little while. "But what about the lieutenant-"

"You can't mention him either, Ed, or visit him." Hughes was still watching him closely, as though trying to gauge his reaction. "We'll take care of it."

So did that mean he was still in danger? That if whoever was behind this knew that Havoc was alive, they'd try to kill him again? Suddenly it occurred to Edward why Hughes was behaving the way he was, and it sent another jolt through him, just like when the sniper had almost taken off a piece of his face.

Lieutenant Havoc wasn't the only one in danger. He'd spoken to him and Al, and that meant they would be, too.

"Come to my place later, for dinner. I'm sure Gracia and little Elysia would love to see you! In fact, I bet Elysia has just gotten ready for her bath, she has this adorable little duckie-"

But Ed tuned him out, because some of the unit were on their way back. He recognized Falman first – he was taller than Fuery, and Maes patted him on the human shoulder before he stepped forward to speak with them. Their tones were low, but he heard anyway.

"What do you mean, you're taking the car-"

"I think I've figured out the addresses, and there's three to check. We sent out the two garrison units on standby, but there were three, and if they're not all hit at once-"

"Do you have time to drop them off at the base?"

"I'm afraid not. Do you know how they got here-?"

A bit tired of being discussed as if he couldn't hear them, Edward turned his head to regard the adults. "We hiked from the park to the river, and then took a boat."

Falman raised an eyebrow. "You stole a boat?"

"We didn't steal anything." Exactly . . .

"But you didn't hire one either, did you." Hughes was far more perceptive when it came to young adults, and Ed resolved to be less forthcoming with him. "It's nightfall, a boat arriving on the shore would be too obvious. We'll figure something out."

There was always the other car, after all. But then again, it meant he'd have to ride with Colonel Insufferable . . . on the plus side, it would be more convenient to go with Hughes for dinner. Not that dinner was going to be 'dinner' so much as 'interrogation with food,' but there was really no getting around that.

The two officers nodded, and Edward stepped away as the car roared to life. Maes looked less than happy at this development, but after a moment, he sighed. "If I tell you to head around the corner, can I trust you to stay there?"

No. "Depends."

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I want you to promise me that you won't peek around the corner, no matter what you hear. Can you do that?"

Hell no. "How long?"

"Maybe ten minutes? It's very important that we get you back without anyone seeing."

Ed considered his options, which were non-existent, and then he motioned for Al. Hughes looked slightly relieved, which worried Ed all the more, and once Al had jogged over, he led them just around the other side of the building from Mustang. Ed took one last glance, noticing that the colonel, Hawkeye, and Breda were standing in front of the three prisoners, and he stopped.

"Should I let him go first?" Hughes looked confused, so he elaborated. "The guy that lit the warehouse."

The lieutenant colonel stepped back out, eyeing the three before his eyebrows crawled for his hairline. "I see," he murmured. "Yes, probably, but Alphonse, please stay here."

He wanted to roll his eyes; it wasn't as if any of the three could hurt Al. But Al didn't protest, so he walked with the lieutenant colonel back to the group of prisoners. Mustang didn't so much as glance up, though Hawkeye was giving Hughes a look that seemed strongly disapproving. In response, Hughes gave her a slightly apologetic shrug.

What was the big deal? He'd captured all three, it wasn't like they didn't know he was there. Or who he was, since he'd announced himself as a State Alchemist and he was the only one under twenty. He mentally slapped himself in the face.

"Flame." The one that had shot him, that he'd trapped in the building, was speaking. Hayes, was it? He sounded completely unconcerned, leaning comfortably back against the building wall. "Heard you got called on the carpet today. Nothing too serious, I hope?"

"I'll deal with the civilian first," Mustang announced distastefully, as if the sniper hadn't spoken, and Edward decided that was his cue. He took a step forward and no one stopped him, so he continued across the line of three men.

"Offal Makurk, sir," Hawkeye volunteered, holding a clipboard, and Ed tried not to gape. The guy was named Awful? That was fucking fitting . . .

He brought his hands together softly, reaching out for the metal barrel rungs he'd wrapped Offal in, trying not to notice the way the man's eyes were rolling. He was slick with sweat, pearls of it were formed across his upper lip, and he never took his eyes off Mustang, even when Ed leaned down to brush his fingertips across the metal.

Without warning, Offal's head jerked towards him. Ed flinched back, but not before something warm and wet hit him right in the face. He squeezed his eyes shut reflexively and felt himself shoved hard, and he landed very ungracefully on his backside. Swiping his sleeve across his face, he jumped back to his feet, both embarrassed and thoroughly grossed out, but a smooth voice stopped him from pursuing.

"It's not necessary, Fullmetal."

The man was running as if he hadn't heard, and expected someone to tackle him at any moment. Hawkeye and Breda were standing at attention beside Mustang, who was staring after the retreating figure with an annoyed look. Hughes was frowning deeply, but he, too, made no move to stop the man. Ed was about to protest when Mustang raised his right hand, the array on his glove standing out prominently against the bright alabaster of the ignition cloth, and he snapped his fingers.

And the fleeing figure was engulfed in flames.

It was _nothing_ like what he and Al had seen at the train station. There Mustang had had tight control of the fire, and it had been relatively cool and small in comparison. This was swirling flames that flashed between blinding whites and blues to deep oranges, reaching almost twenty feet into the air. And in the center, between the roaring tongues of flame, he could vaguely see a dark, wildly thrashing shape.

And it was screaming.

"Are you out of your mind!?" Edward couldn't pull his gaze from the burning man, and the voice of the major that had shot at his brother passed through his ears without registering. "What the hell are you playing at?!"

"I'm cleaning up the evidence," Mustang said calmly, as if he wasn't slowly killing another human being. "Your employer has no idea you've been captured, and Offal was kind enough to provide me with such a convenient means of disposing of you."

Edward was transfixed. He couldn't look away, not even when the pillar moved with the shape as it staggered to the right, desperately seeking escape. All the while, he was screaming, how could he even breathe to scream-

"You have no hope of getting away with this! You're the Flame Alchemist, for fuck's sake! They'll see right thro-"

"Major!" It was the sniper, and he sounded far more concerned than he had previously. "Control yourself!"

"I'm certain the investigations committee will find the fire was started while I was still in meetings," Mustang continued coldly. "Sergeant, did you happen to bring a shovel?"

"Yessir," Breda replied smartly, and the conversation finally caught up with Ed. He spun on his heels, but even turning his back on the dying man, he was unable to block out the screaming. Mustang could end it now, one explosion, why was he dragging it out-

"Move the bodies to the ashes when we're done here."

"Yessir."

None of them were doing _anything_. Hawkeye was staring dispassionately at her clipboard, Breda was glaring at the prisoners, a pistol in his hands, and Hughes was trying to catch his eyes.

Oh, god, Al could hear this, even if he wasn't looking he could _hear_-

And Hughes had known. Had known all along.

"A pity you took that shot at Full Metal," Hughes said suddenly, cutting Ed's half-formed protest off before he could start. "National Alchemists take special offense to people who target one of their own. In fact, I think the punishment for the attempted execution of a superior officer is a firing squad."

"You don't say." The sniper was pale, but he was in far better control of himself than the major, who was visibly shaking, his eyes clenched shut. "Kill us if you want, but it won't bring back your lieutenant, and it won't save you."

"The area was checked, sir. They're alone," Hawkeye murmured, scribbling something down on her clipboard. The screams died back into choked begging, but she never so much as glanced at the distant, burning figure, and Ed couldn't find his voice. Did Mustang do this all the time? Did it happen so frequently that they were _used_ to it? Mustang wasn't even paying _attention_ to the man he was killing-

"I'll schedule the appointment with Miles in the morning, sir," she added, capping the pen before glancing back at Mustang. "Ten minutes."

He sighed, right hand still raised, thumb resting gently against his middle finger, and cast an irritated look at the burning man, who had gone back to screaming. "I apologize, Major. I'm trying to steer him in the right direction, but he's simply not that bright."

"He seems pretty bright to me, sir," Breda joked, then schooled his features. "I can bury the burned dirt. It's no problem, sir."

Edward glanced back, then swallowed hard. Mustang was trying to get the man to stagger _into_ the burning wreckage of the warehouse. He was already more than halfway there, and still stumbling blindly. He could open up a hole, swallow him up and put out the fire, but then what? Breda would be on top of him before he could do anything else, and Mustang had already alluded to the threat of turning Al over to the laboratories –

No. This was _wrong._ He couldn't stand here and do _nothing._

Edward turned his back on them, bringing his hands together with a clap, preparing the correct transmutation. Dirt wouldn't be good for the burns, and he'd probably die anyway, but hadn't he just decided a death in an ambulance was better than one where you burned alive?

"Fullmetal!"

He crouched, hoping it hid his flinch at the raw anger and disappointment in the colonel's barked command. The transmutation was well on its way to the burning man when two enormous arms wrapped around him and hauled him bodily off the ground.

"Take it easy, Ed-" Breda grunted as Ed tried to break his grip, but he didn't let go. "Hang tight for just a sec-" It was muttered low in his ear, but Edward didn't care. How could they expect him to do nothing?!

"Get off me!"

He struck out with the automail leg, not hard enough to break Breda's knee but close, and was surprised when he met only air. The major had grabbed his own wrists in a tight bear hug, and Ed discovered that he might actually be pinned, automail or not. At least for the moment, but he could still get his hands together-

"It's an act," Breda breathed into his ear, so faintly Ed wasn't sure he heard it right. "Calm down, major," he grunted more loudly, shaking him like a dog. "You'll get your turn-"

The major that had shot at Al made a choked sound, and when Breda spun them around, Ed could see that Hayes was glaring at his companion. Mustang, however, tilted his head to the side and regarded the groveling officer. "I didn't catch that, Major Brice. Did you say something?"

Brice shook his head. "Just do it quick," he whispered in a shaking voice. "Just kill him already!"

"I still have nine minutes," Mustang said lazily, frowning again in the direction of the screaming pillar of flame. "It's a personal record, and as Major Hayes pointed out, I have been cooped up in meetings all day." His eyes hardened considerably as they met Ed's, and he met the glare head-on. The man was still screaming, how could it be an act when he was _on fire_-

"You need to learn more self-control, Fullmetal," he added in the same lazy voice, though his eyes remained ice. Breda was still hanging on to him tightly enough to hurt, and both of the prisoners were watching the scene, one with visible growing dread.

It occurred to Edward that if this was an act, he was probably making it look all the more real, since none of the other officers had really responded and everyone present knew that he hadn't been with them long.

Then it occurred to him that if it was an act, he was getting played. _Again._

And if it wasn't, he'd just received his last warning.

Edward swallowed again, glaring at the colonel despite a growing tight feeling in his gut he was starting to think might actually be fear. He was _not_ afraid of Colonel Bastard, he was just . . . he was going to throw up if he opened his mouth. Hughes was still trying to catch his eyes, and when he met them, Hughes' expression became compassionate.

And pity was something he did _not_ need. This was _wrong._ It didn't matter if that guy had shot Havoc and left him to burn to death, he deserved a trial like every other criminal did. It wasn't right for the colonel to take things into his own hands, even if he was genuinely angry about the lieutenant –

Edward blinked, and then he looked at the colonel with new eyes. Sure, he'd punched that major way too hard with the automail, knocked him right out even, because he'd been shooting at Al. Even though he knew the gun wasn't really going to kill his brother, he'd still wanted to hurt him for threatening Al. Was this how Mustang reacted when someone injured one of his men? Just taking the 'act' a little too far?

"Colonel," he started weakly, and Mustang turned again to regard him coolly.

"You can have Hayes," he eventually capitulated, as if reluctantly gifting a petulant child. "I suppose I should thank you for not killing them outright. You may release him, major."

Breda's death grip loosened, and Ed's feet had barely touched the ground before Brice started blustering.

"If you know about Miles, you know how high this goes-"

"Don't be stupid! He doesn't know anythi-"

"All of you will be hunted down," Brice shouted frantically, speaking over Hayes. "If you stay with him, you're dead! Think about it!"

"Shut your mouth!" Hayes looked as if he wanted to murder his companion. "Say nothing!"

Edward shook off Breda's hands, still glaring at the colonel and still not certain he knew what the hell was going on. Brice latched onto him as if he was a lifeline, even shuffling a foot in his direction. "Take him out, and you'll be a lieutenant colonel before the week's over!"

He was begging for his life. For a moment, Ed was almost bemused. He was being offered a promotion to kill the guy he hated anyway. If the situation wasn't so serious, he'd pretend to consider it, but Offal was still screaming, and had finally collapsed at some point, and all he wanted to do was beg the colonel to stop.

"Lieutenant colonel! Think of it-"

Breda was still behind him, and Ed felt the tiniest weight added to the back of his coat. Heymans was actually hanging onto his coat, as if he thought Edward was going to spring forward then and there. He had to make a decision, and quickly, and he couldn't block out that terrible screaming-

"That guy is really starting to get on my nerves," he grated, hoping that if he was shaking, they would think it was in anger. "I'm with them. Shut him up already and let's get on with it."

Brice seemed to realize that his lifeline had been taken away, because he dropped the begging, fixing him with wild eyes and screaming it like an order. "Kill him! For God's sake, kill him!"

Mustang's eyes flicked back to Brice. "You tried to have Fullmetal killed less than an hour ago," the colonel growled, his first expression of any emotion besides irritation. "I doubt he's sympathetic to your cause."

"Miles will have your head for this, Mustang! Damn you!"

"It's a show, Brice! Don't be a fool!"

"Miles has no idea what's happened here," Mustang continued, as if Hayes hadn't said anything. "I expect your bodies will be identified in the early morning, and once they are, he'll be quite cooperative."

"Say nothing-"

"Just kill us!" Brice was sobbing, Ed couldn't watch but it was that or the burning man and he wished so badly that he'd just gone around the corner and only had to hear it, didn't have to see it- "Just kill us!"

"In time."

"McArthur will _kill_ you, you bastard-"

Edward looked at Mustang expectantly. He wanted information, now he had it. Now he could stop. Anything to stop that sound.

"McArthur?" Mustang's voice was still cucumber cool. "Psh. He couldn't plot his way out of a cardboard box. What's the time, lieutenant?"

He didn't _believe _the man? Edward took a step forward, and plainly felt the major trying to stop him. Enough was freakin' enough-

But Hayes had moved at the same time, and Hawkeye had a pistol out and leveled at him so fast it looked like it had been one motion. He froze instantly, and Brice just curled in on himself, sobbing.

"It was McArthur, I swear! I have the orders! Please, just kill us, just kill us!"

"Four minutes, sir," Hawkeye responded crisply, again, as if she and Mustang were having a private conversation in the office.

Mustang sighed, still poised to snap and end everything. "I'm afraid I simply don't believe you," he admitted, without a trace of empathy. "Though I'm getting quite a bit farther with Offal than I anticipated. Can you be patient just a few moments longer, Fullmetal?"

Hayes was staring at Hawkeye without blinking, and Edward realized that he wasn't the only one getting played. Hayes had moved to make them think that Brice had given something away, but what if they were just as convincing as Mustang was? What if Brice's fear was also an act?

Offal was quieting, his voice more and more ragged, and Ed wondered how long Mustang really _could_ burn someone before they died.

He shrugged his coat out of Breda's grasp. "Patience didn't get me my certification."

Roy gave him a half-amused look. "Touché. All the same, I am your commanding officer."

Edward crossed his arms, a picture of self-suffering, then made his expression thoughtful, trying to ignore Brice's sobbing. "Fine. I'll make you a deal, _sir_. You don't break your record, and I get to use the major as a test subject."

Please do not let Al have heard that. Please do not let Al have heard that.

Mustang didn't react at all. To her credit, neither did Hawkeye. Hughes and Breda exchanged a look behind his back, though, and he wasn't sure what it was. If Mustang was going to keep this up until these two gave him what he wanted, then the quickest way to get that guy out of the fire was to help Mustang.

"That's quite illegal, Fullmetal," Mustang finally replied, in a measured tone.

"So is this." Offal's shrieking was growing fainter by the second. Even if it was an act, he could feel the heat of that fire. Even if Roy was just keeping it swirling around the man, it had to have been damn hot. Offal would die of heatstroke and panic if this continued.

Ed also noticed that Brice's sobbing had quieted as he listened, and that Hayes still hadn't moved a muscle. Did they know what he'd meant?

"It's your own fault for walking into a sniper's bullet, Fullmetal. No need to take things so personally."

In a flash of cleverness, Edward gave Mustang a haughty look. "He _dented_ it. I'm going to transmute him into something useful, until he works off the money I'll have to spend having it repaired."

Brice's sobs had died completely away, and Hayes looked slightly more pale.

"A chimera." Mustang glanced towards the pillar of flames, but Ed wasn't sure he could look again without puking. "Very well. I'll agree to that deal."

Ed glanced at Hawkeye, who hadn't taken her eyes off Hayes. "What's the time, lieutenant?"

"Two minutes."

"It was McArthur! I swear, I swear, oh god-"

Roy sighed, picking his alchemist's pocketwatch up with his left hand. "That's close enough to time, then . . . mark."

And then Mustang's party was silent, and Ed glared at Hayes, who was the only safe one to watch, and Brice alternated between whimpering and begging for death, but second after second ticked by, and Mustang had eyes only for his watch.

"Twenty seconds," he finally murmured, and there were still pained sounds coming from the pillar of fire. It had also stumbled quite close to the still-burning wreckage, and even if Mustang was somehow not torching Offal, the fire on the ground wouldn't be as careful-

"Kinnley," Hayes said suddenly, and swallowed convulsively.

Brice kept sobbing, but there was a sudden urgency to it that hadn't been there before. "McArthur, it's McArthur, it's McArthur, oh god-"

"Time," Mustang called, and calmly tucked his pocketwatch back into his coat.

Edward frowned. "Dammit," he muttered.

Mustang gave him another amused look. "There will be others, I'm sure," he consoled him in a condescending tone. "You need to work on that patience."

He dropped his hand, and the pillar of flames died, and everyone looked to see Offal, hairless and naked as the day he was born, curled up on the ground a scant ten meters from the burning warehouse. In the firelight they could see that he was as red as a lobster, but no worse than a bad sunburn. He continued to huddle there, still whimpering, and Brice set his jaw, tears completely gone.

"You leave us alive now, you're dead," he warned Mustang, with no trace of fear.

Mustang smiled at him, and Edward was reminded of that feeling he'd had earlier, the one far too close to fear for his liking. "I'll be perfectly fine. Major, ensure that they are tightly bound. Hawkeye, Hughes, Fullmetal, you're with me. Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen."

He was more relieved than he could say in the sudden silence that followed their walk to the car. Al was probably panicking, but at least the horrible screaming had stopped, and while he was still nervous, Ed knew that playing along had to have bought him some points. Hughes was shooting him winks, which he expected were to make him feel better, but weren't.

He wasn't proud of scaring people. He wondered if that was how Al felt every time he'd asked his little brother to play the same part. Then he decided that Al probably trusted that he _wasn't _actually going to really hurt anyone, and that was the difference.

He didn't trust that Mustang wouldn't hurt someone. Or kill them. No one could do what he'd done as well as he'd done without practice. He'd kept a whirling column of flame surrounding someone for ten minutes. That wasn't something you could do on a whim.

In fact, it was damn impressive.

"Hughes, how long can you hold them up?"

The lieutenant colonel rubbed his chin thoughtfully as they waited for Hawkeye to start the car. "Until dawn, but no longer."

Mustang frowned. "Can you stay with them?" A quick head-jerk in Ed's direction. "I'll send a car for you."

Maes winked at him again, and Ed pretended to ignore it. It wasn't like they needed a babysitter. "I'd be happy to."

"Keep them in your house. That's an order, Fullmetal," he added, turning to Edward and giving him a flat look. Ed nodded before he'd even thought about it, and then Mustang was in the car, and Breda was following, and he could see Al peeking around the corner of the building and he motioned that it was okay, even if he wasn't sure it really was.

- x -

"Breda, get me a status on Fuery's and the garrisons' progress, and on Havoc. If he's pulled through, I need both of you watching that hospital."

Breda just nodded beside him, and Hawkeye was watching him in the rear-view mirror.

"Don't let him see you," he added as an afterthought, and Breda shifted.

"Even in a civilian hospital, they'll find him, sir."

And he knew it all too well. They'd have to get Kinnley in the morning, and they'd have to play Miles off him to do it. And the problem with that was that Roy just didn't know Miles well enough to know what buttons to push. He couldn't very well use alchemy in a conference room tomorrow unless he wanted to be eighty before he saw the sun again.

And keeping all his officers alive in the meantime was another pressing concern. If Kinnley got word before dawn, if Hughes really couldn't keep them, they needed a backup plan. Breda and Hawkeye would be safe, but Fuery and Falman needed to be protected. He could just assign them to paperwork all night, keep them on base.

"Give Fuery and Falman cleanup duty as well," he murmured to Breda. "Tell them to complete it in the main office." It was closest to all the people who would need to sign things, which was why room was provided there, but it also meant they'd get a lot of interruptions as news of the recovered or not recovered munitions spread around the base. They'd be irritated, but they'd be safe.

As for Hughes . . . if his men couldn't keep Brice and Hayes in custody until dawn, having him shelter the Elrics just put him in that much more danger. No help for that, now, either. And sending Fullmetal on a mission tomorrow morning would be too obvious.

"It was clever of Edward to mention the dent," Hawkeye supplied from the driver's seat. "I saw him transmute it away. If he gets caught, it will discredit Hayes with Kinnley."

"He'll probably be in the library bright and early tomorrow," Breda added. "I doubt anyone will try for him there. Al can get his food."

There was no doubt Hayes would be looking to get another crack at him, particularly after he was the one that gave up Kinnley over Fullmetal's shocking threat of chimera transmutation. The only reason he wasn't assigning Hawkeye to Ed was because Havoc was the easier target. Assuming he made it.

He'd make it. Havoc hadn't failed him yet.

Mustang leaned back in the seat, letting the evening shadows give him some semblance of cover. If he couldn't get Kinnley tomorrow, this was going to blow up in his face.

Breda took his relaxation as a cue that immediate planning was over, because he rolled his right arm, hissing a little. The movement was stiff, and Hawkeye watched him in the mirror.

"That automail packs a wallop," he said in explanation, trying to work the pulled muscles. "Glad he decided to play along before he kicked my ass."

They were trying to reassure him, and he appreciated it, but there in the shadows on the back of the seat in front of him, all Mustang could see were frightened eyes in a young face, lit with flames from burning debris.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: And the exciting conclusion! Probably slightly out of character for Edward, but he was quite young back then, and I think it would be fairly difficult for him at that age to defy Mustang to his face, particularly after some of the other events of that evening. Probably slightly out of character for Al, too, but I'll bet he didn't stay in the corner like a good little brother, Ed just didn't see him. ; )

There are a few other things PAA-related that have been toyed with but not fully written, but to be honest the last few nights I've been doing real life things (got the car emission-tested and registered, took the kitten to the vet, took myself to the vet, got a haircut, bought Fourth of July trifle ingredients, got a REAL TIMCANPY for my birthday from the lovely Silverfox, dropped off another trifle for the plumbers, and started cleaning and hauling everything back into the newly etched, epoxied, and dryloced basement! Whew!) So, next chapter of PAA will probably happen on Sunday, and you can bet this will be incorporated, however briefly, into that chapter.


	7. Future Possibilities Part 1

**Perfect After All: Odds Without Ends**

**Future Possibility**

Jaya Mitai

**Disclaimer**: Don't own FMA. Making no money. Please don't sue.

Dug this snippet out of an email account I was closing, and figured some of you might enjoy it. It was written for a friend while I was in the midst of writing PAA: Price of the Past. Technically it's a possible future for PAA canon, but would require further explanation to address slight continuity errors, like Hawkeye's presence. Also, it was a hurried off-the-cuff drabble, as opposed to intended for mass consumption, so don't expect the quality to be quite up to snuff.

But it_ is_ cute. Good ol' Ed and Roy working together. Think of it as a deleted sequel thought.

-x-

It tickled at him, incessant and irritating, and he paused in his work to wipe at the trickle of sweat running down his cheek. Inside, the shade and the promise of a cool beverage beckoned him away from the hot, humid air, but he wasn't ready to call it quits until this section, at least, had been completed.

He so rarely had time to work on his home, after all. And while paying the gardeners to look after it was only money, in the great scheme of things, there was something satisfying about using his own hands. Hands that were suited for so many other tasks, now focused on something as simple as weeding.

Roy Mustang bent his head again, ignoring the growing feeling of sunburn on the back of his neck, and drove the trowel deep into the gravelly soil. It was much more granular than it looked; soft earth met his eyes, but he could feel the tiny, hard balls of baked clay that lay just beneath the velvety loam. No wonder the bushes were looking so ragged. Maybe he was paying these clowns too much-

He smelled something acrid, something that tugged at his memory so strongly he paused again, lifting his head to look around. Definitely sunburned, but it was too late to worry about that now. He took another swipe at the rivulet of sweat, casting his eyes around the small, pleasant garden behind his home, the neat grey stones walling him in the little paradise he never really saw, unless it was behind a coffee cup standing at the sink, or long after the sun had set.

Maybe it was a blessing. There was no smoke in the wet, hot air, but a faint breeze was blowing in from the west, which carried directly over his neighbor's yard-

It came again, a little more muted, but his stomach turned queasily and he frowned, reaching into the bucket beside him for a glove. He hated to pull them on unwashed hands; he could feel the dirt and grit between his fingers when he rubbed them together, though they looked more like they were covered in mud. Wiping them on his shorts didn't do much to get rid of the dirty feeling, though they looked better, and he frowned again as he slipped his hand into the familiar article of clothing.

Why had he even thought to bring them out here? It wasn't as if Scar was still around . . .

Scar . . .

It was only a faint whiff, but it was enough to remind him that he didn't like it. He was staring at the wall, and for a second it had seemed there was blood there on the gray, that it was taller, but then there was that tickle again, and he wiped at it before he remembered himself. Hot. Weeding. He pulled the glove away, and it was sunlit again.

Good thing he didn't need any fire, he thought sardonically, glancing again at his neighbor's yard. Whatever was the man cooking over there? It smelled quite rank, very offensive for such a beautiful, early afternoon. He raised the glove, letting his fingers relax, and focused on pulling clean air from the north, from the street. Normally he hated car fumes more than almost anything, but it had to be better than that sickening, almost cloying scent that keep creeping into the otherwise pleasant little breeze-

It was quite hard to focus on the reaction, and Roy stopped, looking at the glove in confusion. It looked just like it always did, with the embroidered circle, and he inspected the array for damage. It wasn't responding as well as it ought to, and worse, he couldn't quite focus on the salamander, couldn't quite tell if the edge was fraying. Frowning, he pulled it closer to his face, but try as he might, he just couldn't quite make out if the edge was sound or not. It was still glowing, though he felt as if he was concentrating in the wrong place, somehow. The stench of his neighbor's early lunch made his gut cramp again, and he rubbed his face on his shoulder in irritation at the tickle of sweat there.

It had gotten cloudy – did he do that? Roy glanced up at the sky, and found grey clouds roiling there, far faster than he'd ever seen before. The back of his neck still ached from sunburn, but how could he have sunburn in such a place? It was hot, the air was pregnant with rain that wouldn't fall, and he stood, confused at a sharp ache from his abdomen. There was something on the air, something quite wrong, and he glanced up again at the clouds. That acrid quality . . . lightning?

He was definitely the tallest thing around, so he crouched again, raising his gloved right hand and feeling the atmosphere around him. It was moving, in ways he wasn't accustomed to, and it was extremely difficult to stabilize it. There was . . . but he couldn't quite feel it out. He pulled the basic gases to himself in the hopes of creating a safe pocket of air around him. Oxygen, carbon, nitrogen. There was something else there, lots of something else, and he reached out for it, his eyes aching with the strain of focusing. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around the structure of the chemical, but it was familiar, the longer he remained in his crouch the clearer it was coming-

He rubbed at his face in irritation at a tickle of sweat, but it didn't help. Maybe it was a bugbite?

Bugbites . . . Roy lowered his hand again, looking around for the trowel. He needed to get this section done before he'd go in for a drink, and get out of this heat –

But there wasn't any light.

And then he realized he was dreaming.

That scent drifted by, moving on a light finger of air, and his gut reacted strongly, forcing its contents up his throat. He had the presence of mind to open his mouth, but he could barely taste it. He spat the thick sludge out, uncaring of where it ended up, and clung to his last memory. Rolling clouds . . . lightning? The back of his neck ached, it was sunburned because he'd been weeding – no. It was too dark to weed. His neighbor was cooking something, there was something in the air –

He concentrated, and this time it was easier. He pulled the simple, familiar gases to himself. Oxygen. Carbon. Nitrogen. They displaced everything else, and every second that ticked by made him more aware of his neck. It hurt. It ached. It felt as if the smallest shift would flake the top layer of skin right off.

But it was dark. How . . . ?

The same, irritating tickle, and this time when he moved, he _moved._ Barely. He heard his right arm dragging across the rough granules of baked clay, felt it in the shifting muscles of his back, but didn't feel the arm at all, not until something was gently flung against his face. His neck ached strongly as he manipulated the dead limb, and he realized he was wiping away water. More came to take its place, though. A tickle. Another.

Dripping water. But it felt neither hot nor cold.

He opened his eye, suddenly remembering that it was only one. Darkness. There was the faintest whiff of something, and his stomach clenched again. He let it; fighting it was pointless, and he spat when his throat was finished.

Something in the air.

Adrenaline surged through him as his body realized it was in danger, and he opened his eye wide, utilizing the circle on the inside of his eyepatch. He cleared a pocket of air around himself instantly, feeling the heaviness in the atmosphere around him. Xeon, chlorine, argon – compounds, as well. The air felt like heavy smoke from –

From a burned city.

He took a deep breath, ignoring an odd tickle in his lungs. It would get worse, as the mucous cleared, and he'd be coughing soon enough. His right arm was pins and needles, and he shifted it again, wiping at the warm water that dripped on his face. His neck was killing him, it was a burn, but he couldn't tell how bad and he couldn't tell what from. The sour smell of his own vomit was strong in his nostrils and he pushed himself away, instantly discovering that he couldn't.

There was something behind him. And above him, he found, as he unsuccessfully tried to sit up. Struggling reminded him that his left arm was completely unaccounted for, and he froze, taking short, quick breaths through his nose. Using the array on his eyepatch, he used it to feel the atmosphere around him, feel the way it was flowing, and he drew a mental picture of his surroundings. It was far too dangerous to use fire here, not to mention he didn't have the dexterity in his right arm to move it, let alone snap. There was absolutely no light, and he could tell what he was lying on wasn't flat.

He was buried. The air told him there had been a fire, as did the burn, and water dripping on him told him he had probably been right in the fucking middle of it. He was buried in debris.

His air pocket was actually quite large, though only about two feet high, and it wandered over debris so haphazardly he could tell at once that he wouldn't be able to crawl to freedom. There was a wider pocket near his feet, though, so if he could get some circulation in his left arm – assuming he still had it – and scoot backwards, he'd at least be able to move a little. He rotated his ankles, relieved when he could feel them moving in their leather boots, to confirm the space, and then bent his knees. His legs felt completely fine, which probably meant they weren't, and they responded, albeit clumsily. He had expanded his cloud of good air significantly during the exploring, so he wasn't concerned that his struggles would poison him further.

He'd almost suffocated.

Shifting his body weight allowed him to roll a little, and he used his flopping right arm to feel for his left. He found a mound of something, and when he yanked at it it shifted his back, so he assumed it was still attached. It still took a long time for any feeling to come to it, and he wondered exactly how crushed he was. He continued to use alchemy to explore, trying to determine if he could sense truly fresh air, and from somewhere nearby, there was a weak cough.

His eye snapped open again, though he could see nothing. It was too difficult to tell where it had come from, sound was muffled and bouncing off too many objects. He breathed quietly, using the array one more time to look for the telltale inhale and exhale of air as it entered lungs-

There were many places the hot air and cooler air were exchanging in little puffs, but whoever it was coughed again, and he narrowed his eye in concentration, trying to track it down. They were still breathing, that was good –

So there was someone else with him.

Try as he might, he couldn't remember who it could be. He couldn't remember anything at all. What he ate for breakfast. Was it morning? He knew who he was, he was Roy Mustang, he was the Prime Minister-

He was buried in burned rubble. That other person breathing could have been anyone. An aide. One of his men. A bodyguard. The Speaker. More memories tugged at him, but he couldn't quite wrap his fingers around them-

Another cough, followed by a low groan. He tried to wiggle the fingers on his left hand, already able to make a strengthless fist with his right.

"Hello?" he called, and suddenly that dull tickling in his lungs became impossible to ignore. Whatever they'd been breathing had been toxic; the proof was in the copper that he could feel more than taste in his throat, and he went ahead and got it all out of the way. A few deep breaths worked better than alchemy to confirm all the gases had been exchanged from his lungs, and when he spoke again, his voice was rougher than before.

"Hello?"

How did he know the other person wasn't the one responsible for this?

There was no answer. No groan, no cough. He waited over a minute, but only the repetitive drip on his face could be heard, and once he could make a loose fist with his left hand he tried to move.

It was slow going. He was caught on something, probably his coat, and he didn't have the dexterity for the buttons. After an endless amount of swearing and repositioning his arms, he finally thought he had the thing open, but squirming out of it was another thing entirely. He eventually tore it away from his back with a peculiar catch that his foggy mind registered as probably not good, and then he was able to start squirming. He wanted to grab the lip of whatever separated his little pocket of space from the larger one, but something told him that would be a bad idea, so he sucked in his unhappy gut and did his best to move without touching his ceiling.

It took a long time, and he was thoroughly winded by the time he was able to swing his head to a point he thought it was out from under the shelf that had protected him. Once in the larger area, he dared to sit up, wiggling his fingers and rotating his wrists as he tried to take stock.

It was just as completely dark here. No light. He could hear trickling water, which he hoped was an indication that there were emergency units aware of the collapse, but there was still a dangerous heat above him; sitting up had raised the temperature at least twenty degrees between his face and his butt. He hesitantly brushed the back of his neck with a still-tingling finger, but he couldn't tell how bad the burn was. It hurt the instant he put pressure on it, but any burn from a third to a first would. He could feel some areas that felt more numb than others, so blisters. But the skin felt so wet, his shirt was soaked, and it wasn't sticky like blood -

Steam. It was a steam burn.

He was lucky it hadn't cooked his head, then. Might explain the dizziness and nausea, at any rate. Steam . . . what kind of building were they in?

What if it wasn't a building?

He leaned back down; the heat was making him dizzy. This pocket of air was about five by five, and there was something that felt oddly soft in the middle of the space, almost like a bed but not nearly long enough. A cushioned length of something, at any rate. Possibly a sofa? He wasn't sure of its orientation, but he was pretty sure his back was to the actual ground, because if he relaxed he didn't feel about to slither anywhere. There was no way to determine how stable the area was, or what kind of objects were inside it, so he went back to looking for whoever else was stuck here with him.

Once in the larger pocket, it was a little easier to trust sound. The next time he heard a groan, he could tell it was coming from his right. There were lots of little pockets from that direction, the poor soul could be in any of them-

There.

Roy took a deep breath, then gathered himself and sat up again. He wasn't sure if the shock was passing or just getting settled; he felt significantly worse, and the dim feeling that he'd almost remembered what had happened was getting further away. He was still keeping the air clean, and keeping as large a mass of it as possible in the hopes that he could help nearby survivors breathe, but for some reason it didn't seem as fresh as before, and the heat was stifling.

It occurred to him that he could actually be feeding the fires he was afraid were still burning somewhere above him.

Hmm.

He kept that in the back of his mind, crawling blindly across the uneven floor. His hands had finally regained enough sensitivity that he could find the sharp, jagged edges, and he avoided them as best he could. There was still some weird pull at his back, which he was staunchly ignoring for the moment, but it only hurt when he scraped it against something sticking out of the ceiling.

"Dammit!"

Something shifted, very close to his face, and Roy hesitated. He was still about five feet from the feeling of breathing, so maybe it was a foot . . . ? He reached out, groping around the area in front of him. There was something vaguely cylindrical, but it was far too hard to be a limb, burned or no. Still, there was something matted and softer around it, and he could grab it and pull-

"Wha . . . th'hell'r'y'doin'?!"

It was gravelly, low, and full of slurred malice, and he stopped what he was doing immediately. It sounded familiar, too . . he knew this person –

Fullmetal. Which meant-

Which meant he'd found the armored leg, and been pulling off his pants. Fantastic.

"Trying to pull you out," he replied, surprised that his own voice sounded almost as bad. Smoke inhalation did that, he reminded himself, and he continued reaching up – more carefully – until he found a belt. "You in one piece?"

"Wha . . ." came the uncertain reply, and Roy used the location of Elric's torso to build a mental image of the rest of him. He, too, had somehow been arranged with his feet towards that one large open area, and Roy couldn't even get his fingers between Ed's ribcage and the long, smooth thing that was laying atop him. It was lucky he could breathe at all, lucky that something else besides him was supporting the weight. Whatever it was, it felt almost like a beam, and it was at least four feet long.

A metal beam . . . more was coming back. The last time he'd seen Fullmetal was . . . no, not the school, he'd caught him after that, in his office, sulking because . . . but it was gone. He always sulked. Even as an adult he sulked.

Metal beam . . . well, so it was definitely a building. Steam, a sofa . . . surely Parliament hadn't been attacked? Why couldn't he remember?

"Fullmetal."

He felt the ribs try to expand as Ed took a slightly deeper breath. "Where'm'I?"

Mustang bit back the obvious explanation. He really didn't know outside of what Fullmetal should already be able to tell. "I'm going to move you. Tell me if there's pain."

"-were_always_'z'pain . . ."

He let the mumble go, secured his grip on the younger alchemist's belt, and pulled.

It was almost as hard to unpin Edward as it had been to work himself free. Despite the lack of his signature red coat tangling things up – and thank the gods he'd had the sense to discard that costume once he'd become headmaster of the Academy - soon after Roy started extricating the alarmingly limp body from its extremely tight fit, he heard a scrape of metal on rock. Fullmetal's breathing caught, and Roy stopped immediately. Edward didn't say anything or give away any more pain, but Roy laid down as best he could, trying to work a hand under the beam to see if he could figure out what the armor was caught on.

"Sstp."

His hand met dampness, though whether sweat, blood, or water, he couldn't immediately tell. He had moved Ed's armored arm enough that he could worm his own up Ed's side, and he found that where Edward's head had been was slightly more open than the space he was being dragged through now. He also found that Ed's armored arm appeared to now be above his head.

Perhaps _that_ was what was supporting the beam? Or the debris the beam was resting on?

"Does your arm hurt?"

Ed's slurred responses were not getting any clearer, nor was he tense in the slightest. "Bassard."

It was hard to tell if Fullmetal had finally recognized him, or was berating him for missing something obvious. "Can you move it?"

The faintest whisper of something moving in the rubble, followed by another hiss. "Aaauuhh . . . s'stuck."

Well, that was a little more coherent, anyway. Roy laid more fully on his side, careful to mind his back, and ignored the sharp ache in the back of his neck as he extended his right arm as far as he could up Fullmetal's body. The man was hot; it was very hot in the pocket his head had been in, and Roy facilitated the movement of air. It was getting hotter. There was no doubt about it. He felt the ribcage against his arm suck the cooler air in greedily, and there was another cough.

That's why they were so muted. He didn't have the room to cough like he meant it. He would have suffocated too. Quickly.

He still might.

Roy grabbed for the top of Ed's shoulder, trying to find where the armor was going, cursing under his breath that he couldn't simply disconnect it and pull the alchemist away. It was a real arm. Of all the times for that to be inconvenient-

"S'not automail," Ed said, with far more actual consciousness behind the words. "Armor won' c'm'off like that."

Well, there was nothing else for it. He couldn't crawl into the small area with Fullmetal, and he couldn't feel far enough up the arm to see what it was hung up on. If it indeed was pinned under the rubble, or worse, holding it up, he wouldn't have the time to be gentle, either. The delirium – and the wetness – was worrying him a lot. Though, if he was right, and it really was blood –

Then it wouldn't matter if he was gentle or not.

He needed to do something about that heat, or it was all moot anyway.

Hoping his own back was stronger than it felt, he wedged his right arm, then his back, beneath the beam. He had good leverage, and he could probably push Fullmetal the rest of the way out if he had to support that beam. Maybe. Or they'd both be pinned. It was better than just crushing the other alchemist outright. Roy took another deep breath, then grabbed at the top of Ed's armor and yanked.

He only managed to budge Edward slightly, and it was a good thing. Fullmetal shouted, whether in warning or pain he couldn't tell, and there was a sudden and alarming lessening in the amount of vertical space available. He was pressing upwards with everything he had, but he realized after a few seconds of pointless straining that he couldn't budge the beam above them. He tried relaxing slightly, and it didn't lower. There was the faintest whine of metal on metal, almost in his ear, and then he heard Fullmetal let out a shaky breath.

"Got it," he mumbled. "S'on m'leg."

It took Roy a second to work out what had happened, but once he did, their next move was simple. He squirmed out from beneath the beam, then reached back under, grabbed Fullmetal's flesh wrist, and dragged. The alchemist rotated in place – his bent knee, and the armor of his leg, had caught the beam and was currently the only thing holding it up.

Of course, it would completely come down when he finally pulled, but in the larger area, he had a hell of a lot more leverage, and hopefully the armor would protect Fullmetal's foot as well as it was protecting everything else.

His next thought was to wonder if it really _was_ protecting Fullmetal's leg, or merely propping up bones that were already broken.

One he'd pivoted Ed out from under the shelf, the younger man took long, greedy gulps of air, and he waited, still clasping that wrist, until all sounds of squirming ended and he clearly heard Ed swallow. He reached across Edward again, checking to make sure his other leg was folded up as tightly against him as possible, out from under the beam, and then he cleared his throat.

"Ready?"

The fingers he was clasping tightened slightly around his sweating wrist, and he stood in a deep crouch, grabbed that arm with both hands, and pulled.

The effort jarred his back, and he found himself falling backwards amidst a deafening noise. He landed hard on his backside, though something cushioned his fall – the sofa? - and there was still a wrist in his hands, and he could feel the tension in it, Fullmetal was crushing his wrist. He continued dragging the other alchemist back until he'd practically pulled him into his lap, and then he utilized the hidden array, separating the dust from the air around their heads. It was getting harder to find oxygen, he was having to pull it from farther and farther away, and the damp body in his arms was shaking in a pronounced way, even as debris continued to settle-

"Fullmetal."

He could hear Ed's harsh breathing, and even over that was a metallic crunching, almost rhythmic. He hoped it was the leg armor being articulated, but then that would mean it was damaged, which might mean his leg had been crushed-

"Whi . . .S'g'nna'kill me," he managed to get out, and then there was what sounded like a quiet laugh that ended in body-wracking coughs. Having already been through that, Roy just rolled Ed onto his side, ignoring something extremely hot buried deep in his back. He knew he was making it worse, but he could see to it soon, as soon as he'd taken care of the other immediate threat to their lives.

Ed finally caught his breath, and the shaking was all but gone from his frame. He slumped exhaustedly against Roy's leg, apparently uncaring of whatever else he was laying on, and Roy let his head fall with a thump back onto the back of the sofa. It wasn't rounded enough to be a sofa back, so it was something else, but it was as reasonably comfortable as anything could be against the burn on his neck. In fact, slouched against it like he was, he'd remembered noting the same thing, that it was at a bad angle and it would put a crick in his neck-

He'd been sitting on it. He'd been trying to sleep on it. Why? He clung to it with all his concentration, but as before, it slipped away.

Grinding his teeth, Roy eventually let it go, and concentrated on the array once more. Then he released Fullmetal – he'd still been hanging onto him? – and pulled off the eyepatch. Might as well get a little light if he was going to go to all the effort –

Edward shifted in his lap slightly as the array glowed dully, and he gathered more oxygen toward them. Draining it away from all the other, smaller pockets and spaces around them. But what if there were others . . . ?

"Can anyone hear me?" he called, letting his irritated voicebox deepen his voice. He'd gotten well used to projecting with a damaged throat after the last debacle involving getting himself beaten up, but he was pretty sure this one wasn't his fault, he'd been taking a nap, for-

He'd been taking a nap because . . because . . . _damn_!

"Hello!" he shouted, listening to his voice being consumed by the dark and the smoke. It was amazing how a thick atmosphere could so muffle the human voice, but project other sounds . . . like the air itself was trying to keep him quiet.

"No one else," Edward muttered, shifting again with a hiss. "Armstrong'll've blocked it." It was almost hesitant.

Armstrong –

In his mind's eye he could see the now-General, still in his shirt, oddly, slamming a fist to the ground so that a huge row of busts dedicated to his family rose to meet the roaring –

But he couldn't make it out. Just a flash, and he'd worked with Alex long enough to have that image burned into his imagination forever.

"What happened?"

Ed was shifting in slow, painful movements, and leaned against Roy's stomach more strongly. This was accompanied by an odd metallic ring, almost like a silver plate had been dropped. "Blew up."

Did Edward actually remember? "What blew up?"

Another metallic ping. "Dunno. Must've been'n'th'baggage. X'ng'll've'ad alchemists. S'okay."

He couldn't make sense of the second slur. "Edward, I don't remember. Where are we?"

-x-

**Author's Notes**: Broke it into two parts due to posting limits. Told you the quality was an issue. ; ) Second part will be up in a jiffy, and I can promise it's only two parts, and it is **not** the beginning of a sequel. Not not not.

Mainly because a sequel would begin with Al, of course.


	8. Future Possibilities Part 2

Disclaimer in previous chapter. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

-x-

Ed's movements stilled, and he paused for a moment. "Dun 'member?"

Roy gritted his teeth. Even if Ed knew, he probably wouldn't be able to tell him. "No," he said shortly. "Are you certain there wouldn't be more survivors?"

Ed sighed, then coughed sharply. "S'a lot?" Then he felt Ed drag his armored arm off his leg, and a little pat-

And if he transmuted in this condition, he was going to bring the whole damn thing down on top of them.

Roy caught both of Ed's arms as quickly as he could, and the blue glow of his array died entirely as the eyepatch slipped off his bent knee. It was entirely too easy to stop the younger man; Ed only struggled for a moment, and weakly. "Wha'th'ell'r'y'doin'?!"

"Preventing you from killing us," he ground. "You're in no shape to transmute." He held Ed tightly until the man relaxed again, only then daring to release him. When Ed did nothing more alarming than move his head a little, he picked the array back up.

"Hello!" he bellowed, one last time, but in all this time, he hadn't heard anyone else, no coughs, no calls . . . he'd have to risk it, or they'd all die anyway.

Roy concentrated all the available oxygen into the five by five space he occupied, pulling carbon and nitrogen as well. There was plenty of that around; he even allowed the pollution of other non-flammable gases into the mix, and he layered them just above his head. He was right; something from above was drawing air, and whatever it was, now it was drawing nothing useful to burn. He would effectively be smothering all other life, but if he was right, and it was getting hotter because of fire –

But if the fire was still raging, where had the water come from? The steam? From pipes? Why would he have said the baggage unless they were traveling –

His head lolled on the back of the bench, his arms folded across his chest, and he waited patiently for the angry voice to subside. It was taking less time, these days, and besides, he knew Ed had a special place in his heart for Xing. Apparently he and Al had crossed the border briefly during their travels.

"- will be a total waste of time, do you know how many princes there are?" The voice was changing volume slightly, up and down. He was pacing. "And you know damn well they're interested in a Philosopher's Stone, that's why you dragged me on this stupid goodwill jaunt and you _know_ it . . . are you even listening?!"

What Fullmetal said was truth. He did know the current Emperor of Xing was looking for a way to extend his life, and this little trip to Xing was indeed nothing more than a goodwill jaunt. The pieces of the jade dragon, the gift from Xing, were safe in the baggage compartment, waiting to be rebuilt with precision by the artist who had made it – obviously an alchemist, though he wasn't sure the original work had been created with alchemy. It had been so perfect, though, maybe that was how they'd gotten the curve of the eyeballs so beautiful. Either way, he knew their peoples felt a philosophical difference about alchemy, and he was eager to see the demonstration.

"I am listening, Fullmetal," he said quietly, putting his mind back to the conversation at hand. "I'm certain the entire train can hear you, and possibly the platform as well-"

"How long does a damn security check take," Edward groused. "The sooner we get this dog and pony show over with, the better. You need to pick a new trophy alchemist. This shit's getting old."

Roy almost choked. Trophy alchemist?! Then it occurred to him that such a statement was, in fact, hilarious, and he indicated that he found it so. Loudly. Maybe if he hadn't been trapped on a train for the past ten hours . . . but no. It was almost as funny as thinking about the young man as a trophy wife. Trophy indeed.

He wiped at his remaining eye, just to piss Edward off further. "You're here to encourage a foreign exchange program between the Academy and the Emperor's Conclave, as you're well aware. Truly, I felt the task would be more appropriate for your brother, but for better or worse, you are the headmaster, not Alphonse. Besides," he added, a little more seriously, "Alphonse would not have been as well suited to discuss a hypothetical Stone." Being that he was the only Elric that had used one, as well as actually having been one, dodging a conversation on Stones, especially how they are made and what they are made of, would probably be far more distressing for the gentler of the Elrics.

Edward frowned at him, but it was obvious in an instant that it was a frown of agreement. "You're still a bastard," he muttered, glancing out the window, and Roy found himself almost relieved that Edward had spent the majority of the trip pouting in the meal car. "How long can Hawkeye friggin' take?"

"Until she's satisfied." He was long used to having to wait until two rounds of security officers cleared the way for him on foreign soil, and he was rather glad the Speaker and his three Parliament officials were several cars further up the train. Besides, Xing was a kingdom they hadn't met on the battlefield in a long time. Almost a hundred years. Hawkeye would be being doubly careful, despite the relative lack of public warning that the Prime Minister of Amestris was on his way. With both the Speaker and the Prime Minister here, if they were killed, it would leave Hakuro the next highest ranking government figure.

And that was a good reason to make extra sure.

He almost missed the malevolent smirk that crossed Ed's mouth. "Roy, Hawkeye hasn't been satisfied sinc-"

He couldn't recall if Ed had finished the sentence. Whatever his quip had been, it was probably well deserved, Mustang reflected, resting his head once again on what he now remembered quite clearly was a traincar bench. He'd left himself wide open for such a retort.

Ed had probably been right. Armstrong had been selected as the military's representative, mainly because he was such an artist himself and Hakuro had clearly seen that he would have been dealing with a sobbing wreck if he hadn't let Alex go. He would have had more notice than they did of the explosion, if it had indeed come from the baggage car. He would have had time to erect some kind of barrier.

In fact . . . Ed must have done the same. All he could remember was a noise, and a jolt, and he'd maybe made it to his feet but everything after that was fuzzy. If Ed hadn't done something, they should have been torn apart. Particularly if it had been a large enough explosion that the station roof had come down. Nothing else could explain that bar, unless it was part of the railroad tracks . . . ?

Armstrong would have dug them out by now if it were so simple. So anyone on the platform –

. . . dammit.

Unless, by some miracle, the explosion hadn't come from the train itself? Had come from something on the platform, or another train altogether?

It comforted him, that there was a chance, so he clung to that happy thought and continued manipulating the gases around them, allowing them to breathe while he smothered everything else. It was too early to tell if it was working, since the gases conducted heat differently, and gas provided excellent insulation. It was no hotter, at least, and it didn't take too much of his attention, so Roy shifted slightly, keeping the eyepatch in his left hand.

If Edward was bleeding, he'd have to see what he could do.

"Fullmetal."

Ed had stilled against his legs some time ago, though the man shifted his head a little. "M'I in y'rlap?"

He almost rolled his eye. "Quarters are a little cramped." Ed didn't really respond, and he thrust the eyepatch forward, letting the array cast a light blue glow on the younger man. He'd been in the dark so long it seemed a lot of light, and it illuminated Ed's face. There was something dark running down his cheek, though whether it was just dusty sweat or blood was hard to tell. Roy leaned up as far as his back would allow, extending the patch out as far as he could, and got a general look at the body in his lap.

For all intents and purposes, Fullmetal was in one piece. His leg armor looked extremely weird, warped somehow, and he moved the patch in a lateral motion over the limb, trying to determine the damage.

"Undid th'catch," Ed supplied, patting the leg with his human hand. "'S'tight, but not t'bad. 'll transmute it back together n'minute."

Trusting him, and not really sure why he was still slurring so badly if he was coherent, he studied Edward's trunk and chest more closely. He was wearing an ivory shirt, which showed multiple stains, but nothing dark enough to be a significant amount of blood. It was either sweat, or more probably, water. Roy realized his own shirt was soaked with the same, from the water that had saved his life. Woken him up just enough to save himself.

He pressed down rather firmly on Ed's ribcage, and while he was able to get a start out of the other alchemist, it seemed all his ribs were at least unbroken. All told, unless there was a piece of rebar sticking out of his back, they'd gotten out of things remarkably unscathed.

Assuming they were able to get out of here before they ran out of air.

"Y'okay?"

Roy smiled, a little bemused. "Mostly." The air was getting a little thin, so he channeled some of the hot ceiling air towards the growing puddles around them. As the water evaporated, he stole the oxygen out of the steam and added it back to his cloud of air. It raised the temperature slightly, but not significantly enough to bother either of them.

"Wuzzat s'post'mean?"

Roy leaned forward, putting the eyepatch back on his knee before reaching behind him. His searching fingers met his shirt, stuck to him like a second skin, and while he could feel a wound, there didn't seem to be anything sticking out. A gash, then. He decided to leave it alone, and leaned back against the bench again. His clothes were soaked, useless as bandaging, so putting pressure on it was the best he could do. He didn't think it was bleeding a great deal, even though it hurt plenty.

Then again, he could be wrong. Ed clearly wasn't in a good enough condition to tell.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, and Edward's breathing became so steady that he was certain the younger man had fallen asleep. It was extremely tempting to do the same, wait for the fires above to die down, then maybe – maybe – have Fullmetal try to transmute them a way out. But he knew if he fell asleep they'd both be dead. Oxygen was thin at best, and while there was a steady supply of water, all he was really doing was building a dangerous cloud of hydrogen by pulling the oxygen off. He'd have to find a better way, and soon.

He reached out into the pocket of empty space around them, again, just to see how far he could. As he recalled, the platform was at least eight traincars long, and it was an indoor structure, much like the one in Central. But outside of roofing material and the support beams themselves, there really shouldn't have been a whole lot of rubble besides the train, and possibly the other train, he supposed, but it could hardly have all piled on top of them . . . there had to be a path to fresh air somewhere. His chest started to ache slightly in warning, but he ignored it, creeping along with a finger of nitrogen, letting it sweep against this surface and that –

Dimly he felt something strike his face, and he started in surprise. His neck had been lying against the bench; grinding it into the dusty fabric sent a wave of pain radiating through his back, and he gasped.

Then he started coughing, and he realized what had happened.

He groped around blindly for his eyepatch, aware that the weight in his lap had changed, and suddenly his right hand was grabbed, and something was pressed into it. He started a reaction immediately, reaching upwards this time as well in his effort to get them breathable air.

There was some to be had, actually, and after their coughing petered out he slowly eased himself back onto the bench. He'd been right; now he had a crick to go with that burn. "Sorry."

"S'okay."

A little disappointment flickered through the adrenaline coursing through him, and Roy concentrated instead on building their cloud of air back. He'd pulled air from above them, which hadn't been superheated. There was no telling how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been too long, not if they were both still alive.

More shifting, and then Ed's weight was entirely off him. "Well, I s'ppose we should clean th' place up," Ed muttered briskly, with far less slurring, and then there was a quiet clap. The yellow-green glow of phosphorus grew, slowly, at Roy's feet, and he was startled to see Edward, stiffly bent, just across from him. The boy's golden eyes caught the light almost like a large cat's might have, and they were fixed on him.

Roy just stared at him for a second, completely caught off-guard. Surely he was still dreaming; had Edward really recovered so quickly?

"Well, it's had t'at least been an hour," Ed continued, misinterpreting his look of surprise. "I'm s'prised Alex hasn't gotten t'us yet."

Roy just looked at him. "You sound better."

Ed made a face at him. "Bit m'tongue," he finally admitted with a sour look. "Swelling finally wen' down."

For a moment, Roy wanted to laugh.

He bit his tongue. They were buried at least ten feet in rubble, almost burned to death, almost smothered, and the worst injury Edward had was a bitten tongue?

But then he recalled what else Ed had said. That it was surprising that, even if an hour, or even two, had passed, that Armstrong hadn't dug them out by now. And what that could possibly mean for him. For the Speaker.

Edward did manage to interpret that look correctly, and he let it go, concentrating on his outstretched leg armor. It was a very focused gaze, and Roy could see why he'd needed the light. The armor had been partially crushed, to the side, and Mustang knew well that Rockbell hadn't built a lot of extra space into it. It was probably paining him, even if he'd loosened it earlier.

"Your leg broken?"

He didn't take his eyes off the armor. "Nope." Then he clapped his hands together, and brought them to the armor. Watching either of the Elrics transmute was a treat; they made it look so damn effortless. The light of the transmutation was blinding, however, to eyes so accustomed to the dark, and it took him several seconds of blinking to see the finished result.

It wasn't quite perfect, but it didn't screech when he rotated his ankle, which was apparently all he was shooting for. Another clap, and he held his hands to his clothes. Steam rose from them as he transmuted out the water, and another touch cleaned the dirt significantly. Ed caught him watching, and raised an eyebrow.

"We do have an emperor t'meet," he reminded him lightly. "Can y'sit up?"

Another way of asking if he was injured, but this time Roy didn't mind. Ed had a point, possibly a sharper one than he really knew . . . Roy blinked around at the space, trying to match it to what he'd mentally constructed. He'd done a piss-poor job; it was the cabin of the traincar they'd been in, though one of the building supports had fallen directly through the center of it, bringing roofing materials in. Thick, heavy ceramic tiles. That was the clay he'd felt, and pieces of the traincar itself also littered the floor. Since he'd been seated at the back of the car, the corner had provided his shelter, as it had for Edward.

They were damn lucky. He wasn't sure what transmutation Ed had performed, if any, but since he couldn't see any of the traincar through the support beam that had cut through it, he supposed something besides luck had saved them.

He leaned off the bench, which was of course no longer bolted to the floor, and in fact had collapsed altogether, and reached for his coat. It tore a bit as he freed it from the debris, but of course that was no problem for the Fullmetal Alchemist. Ed smirked at him as he accepted the article. "Want me t'make any 'justments? Still think it makes your head look like a mushroom?"

Roy tilted his head, slightly. "Why, Fullmetal. I had no idea you were spying on me in my dressing room on inauguration day."

At that Ed's lofty look crumbled back to his usual sarcasm. "Well, since I knew you'd be gettin' caught with your shorts down s'often, I figured I better burn th' image into my retinas and be done with it."

"How pragmatic."

Edward clapped his hands together rather sharply, and more light than had really been necessary was generated as he cleaned, dried, and repaired the garment. Roy held up a hand, blocking some of the glare, and when he felt it safe to look again, he found Fullmetal a lot closer than he had been.

"Not a word," he muttered, reaching out to touch the hem of Roy's trousers. It was . . . absolutely a strange experience to have his clothes crackle with alchemic energy, not once but three times, and even weirder to have it done to his shirt. Edward's eyes narrowed as he completed the tasks, and then he maneuvered himself so he was sitting beside him on the bench.

"That need patching up?"

Roy turned his back on the man; Ed had a point. The less they looked like the explosion had affected them, the more powerful the message to Xing. Coming off their spectacular military victory last month, it would only amplify Amestris' reputation.

Well, his. And probably Fullmetal by association.

Unlike Elric's typical brusqueness, his shirt was pulled up very gently. "It's not bad," Ed said finally, and there was a sudden wrenching tug and a hellacious sting that radiated clear through his back to his sternum. He shouted before he'd realized it, and then clamped his jaw closed, gripping the edge of the bench.

_Damn_ that man. "Was that necessary?" he asked tightly, when he could.

Edward reached around him and opened his hand. A small piece of . . . something dark was there, about as large as Edward's thumb. "'less you wanted to walk around with this in your back all day . . ."

"Some warning would have been nice." He hadn't even felt it in there.

"It cauterized the wound. You still need to have someone look at it," Ed replied, ignoring him utterly. There was another little pat of his hands, and light flashed in their tiny cabin. Something cool was stuck over the wound, which still stung like the devil, and then Edward tugged on the shirt. Another reaction, this one probably to get rid of the blood, and then he felt Ed move away.

"I think that's about as clean as we're going to get."

Their faces were still dirty, probably, but if they looked sparkling clean, it would be quite suspicious. Roy shifted, leaning ever so carefully against the bench again, and found that Ed had slouched in much the same position. They stared at the ceiling, which was uncomfortably close to both their heads, as the glow of the phosphorus slowly started to die.

Edward was clearly feeling better, and so was he. Whatever shock they'd both been in was wearing off.

It had been a long time. Maybe too long to help with the search for survivors, but if nothing else they could make sure that effort wasn't wasted on them.

"You in good enough shape to transmute a way out?"

Ed sighed thoughtfully. "I can use the flooring beneath us to make a shaft through whatever's on top of us, but without knowing how deeply we're buried, and who might be trying to dig us out, it'll have to be pretty slow. How much air do we have left?"

It was getting much easier to pull fresh air from above, and Roy remembered to grab his eyepatch, still in his right hand, and put it on. Ed had been looking at him directly the entire time and hadn't said a fucking word. Then again, Mustang wasn't sure he really cared. Ed knew the wound was there, after all, and he'd seen so much worse at a much younger age-

"I'd say construction efforts are well underway," he agreed. "There was fire above us, so the wreckage is going to be hot. How slow can you take it?"

Ed blinked, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, then he shook his head. Roy was surprised to see a genuinely amused smile on the man's face.

"You know," Ed said conversationally, scanning the low ceiling before standing as straight as possible in the cramped space, "we can't actually tell anyone about this."

He clapped his hands, raising them to the ceiling, and while they glowed, nothing else happened. He was feeling out the material above them.

"What do you mean?"

The younger man didn't say anything else, just clapped his hands again, doing the math, and started transmuting like he meant it. Mustang stayed where he was, despite the terrible noises above them, and after about eight feet of steady, slow molding of metal supports to hold their cabin steady, and more to make a shaft straight up, they finally saw daylight.

They also heard it, in a series of shouts.

Ed backed off a little as a shadow crossed the daylight, squinting hard. Very shortly the light dimmed even more, and then they heard an excited mutter in a foreign language. Then came the booming tones of Armstrong, and something in Roy relaxed, just a little.

If Armstrong was still alive, there was a good chance the Speaker was, too.

"After you," Ed growled, tossing his jacket at him, and Roy tucked in his shirt tail and shrugged his uniform jacket on gingerly before stepping closer to the metal shaft. He had expected Edward to transmute a ladder at that point, to help them climb out, but he soon found that was unnecessary. A rope snaked down from the steaming opening, wrapped around his waist like a living thing, and hauled him upwards.

He was more than a little alarmed, but he didn't let it show, holding up one (bare) hand against the sunlight as he found himself gently deposited on his feet. He murmured a thank-you to the almond-eyed man – alchemist, clearly – that was manipulating the rope, and stepped down the debris towards a cleared area, blinking repeatedly.

The entire platform really had gone, and he could see that their train car had actually been tossed onto the car in front of it, and been partially covered by the one behind, like the collapsed line of a child's dominos. Clearly the explosion had come from behind the train, just like Fullmetal had surmised, but not _from_ it. Oil from the ruptured bottom of the car behind them had soaked the entire area in flames. He was standing on a flat part of the charred roof of the station, which meant the entire thing had collapsed, but it didn't indicate whether-

"Did you two have a good time, sir?"

He felt himself smile, still looking down to avoid the sun. A pair of dusty but intact military issue combat boots were standing directly in front of him, and he could see by her shadow that she'd tied her uniform jacket around her waist.

She'd been helping the dig.

"Status, colonel."

Movement – a sharp salute. "Hayes and Dweier are unaccounted for." And presumed dead, from her tone. "General Armstrong was able to fortify his car, and the Parliament contingent has been sent ahead to the palace. Goodman was badly injured but has been treated by the Xingese healers."

"What of the civilians on board?"

He heard her hesitate, and he heard another pair of boots hit the platform they were standing on. Elric.

"Their losses were also surprisingly light, considering the damage-"

A heavily accented voice interrupted her, and Roy was forced to drop his hand and raise his eyes to see a young Xingian. He was dressed in the customary clothing indicating royalty, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

"My apologies, Prime Minister, and my relief at finding you well," the young man murmured in a smooth voice. "Please, on behalf of my father, welcome to Xing."

Roy bowed at the waist, carefully hiding any hesitation in the movement. Not that he'd fool Hawkeye, or Fullmetal, but Edward was cheating, he knew the injury was there. When he came out of the bow, he was surprised to see a brief flash of . . . something extremely dangerous in the Xingese prince's eyes.

"I thank you for your welcome," he said politely, in Xingese. "Have you determined what took place here?"

The prince smiled, so convincingly anyone else might have thought it was real. "An assassination attempt," the prince replied, in Amestrian. "They happen fairly regularly, of course, so we have grown accustomed to them."

"Who were they after?" Fullmetal asked suddenly, just behind Roy's right shoulder.

The prince inclined his head. "Please, if you would follow me to the palace. I am certain you are weary after your long wait, and would appreciate the chance to freshen up. I will ensure a healer is made available to you privately."

Roy bowed again, this time his head only. "I thank you for your hospitality, Prince . . ."

"Ling Yao," he said with a smile, over his shoulder, as he led them sure-footedly across the debris. "Will your companion be remaining with you, or require a room of his own?"

Ed made a noise Roy chose to interpret as a swallowed sputter, and Mustang carefully schooled his expression. Not that this Ling would have missed it. Mustang got the impression the prince didn't miss much.

Which meant he'd done it on purpose. Baiting Elric, hoping to catch him off guard.

"An adjoining room would be suitable, thank you."

Suitable for discussing this new threat, at any rate. The next sound Edward made couldn't really be quantified, but Mustang was saved from a swift death by the timely arrival of General Armstrong. He barely listened to the man's sincere expression of relief at finding him alive, and hardly even thought about his words in return in thanks for protecting the Speaker. He was a thousand miles away by the time they'd climbed into waiting transportation, and he almost missed the look Edward gave him as they seated themselves in the carriage.

Almost.

-x-

**Author's Notes**: So there you have it. Fluff. Though now it occurs to me, we'll never know if he got the jade dragon fixed, considering it's buried in rubble. I kind of want that jade dragon in real life . . .


End file.
